The Sellsword
by Imperator100
Summary: Alrukir is an amoral mercenary from Hammerfell who winds up in the Imperial City Prison after a botched contract. After an unexpected turn of events, he finds himself with Tamriel's future in the palm of his hands, forcing him to choose between sellsword and hero.
1. No Escape

The Imperial City Prison. It was dark, it was damp and it stunk of rat piss all over. The only light came between the bars in the cell windows, and that was likely the only light Alrukir would see for a long time.

The Redguard sat against the wall of his tiny, bare cell, his long, black hair hanging over his dark eyes. Even before he had been imprisoned he was gaunt and lean, and now that he had been in there little over a month, on a rather wholesome diet of stale bread and water, he was looking particularly worse for wear. Down his chin ran a long, thick beard which was entangled with the other mass of hair.

There were only two prisoners in this wing, him and the Dark Elf 'Valen Dreth', who had not missed a single opportunity to taunt or mock him the entirety of his imprisonment here. "No more sunshine, no more open seas." Dreth had rasped at him when they first met. "Just a box and a dirty beam of light for the rest of your life." Maybe he was right, but it didn't make Alrukir want to cut the elf's throat any less.

He stared at the pitch black ceiling and reminisced over the events that led to his imprisonment. Before being cooped up in this pit, he had been a sellsword. Growing up on the rough streets of Sentinel, he learned of his penchant for killing at an early age. He sold his sword to rich and powerful nobles all over Hammerfell, and even did a few contracts in the nearby provinces of High Rock and Skyrim. He soon developed a reputation as the best of the best.

Recently, he was hired by a corrupt and sleazy, but powerful merchant prince to eliminate the competition. His target was a rival merchant, just as wealthy and powerful, who was travelling through Cyrodiil en route to Morrowind. This was no easy task either, as he was guarded by elite fighters from all over Tamriel, so Alrukir took a fairly large band of some of the best killers he knew and rode for Cyrodiil.

The plan was to ambush and wipe out the merchant and his heavily armed entourage just off the Cyrodiil-Hammerfell border, then flee back into Hammerfell to escape Cyrodiil's jurisdiction. A plan that would have worked without a hitch, had someone not betrayed them to the merchant. As they caught sight of the merchant in the Colovian Highlands, hordes of Imperial guardsmen jumped out of hiding all around them and demanded their surrender. The more foolish ones attempted to resist, and ended up full of arrows. Alrukir, seeing he was heavily outnumbered, threw down his weapons and surrendered. He was thrown off his horse, beaten to a bloody pulp and hauled off to the Imperial City to face trial. He ended up in this cramped little cell, and here he had remained ever since.

The sellsword's thoughts were interrupted when he heard the sound of a key turning in a door somewhere above. He jerked his head down as a door creaked open and heavy, metallic footsteps rang from the stairs. The figure who emerged was squat and broad. An Imperial, suited in iron plate bar the helm and gauntlets. Strapped to his thigh was a rusted iron mace, clearly more useful for intimidation value than actual combat. His face, like his body was fat and puffed up, his jowls hanging over his collar like fleshy curtains. He had no hair except for a thin, grey wisp around the back of his balding pate. His eyes were small and piggy, though just large enough to see the hatred and malice within them. His thick, puffy lips were twisted into a permanent sneer.

Brutus the jailor approached Alrukir's cell, carrying a knob of stale bread and a flagon of water. He carelessly tossed them in between the bars of the cell, grunting spitefully as he did so, the water partially spilling as the flagon slammed against the stone floor of the cell.

"Your meal, Redguard." the jailor rasped in his deep, resentful voice, his tone both mocking and hateful at the same time. "The bread's only been stale for about a week this time, and I may not have spat in the water, I don't quite remember." He sneered, his wormlike lips glistening with wetness as they twisted.

The Imperial, like Valen Dreth, harassed Alrukir whenever the opportunity presented itself. Only, he was worse, since he actually had power. He had never ceased trying to make the Redguard's stay at the Imperial City Prison a living nightmare. He would taunt him, pour his water over the floor right in front of him and jab him with his mace through the bars of the cell. Today, however, he must have been feeling especially generous, for he had only done one of those things so far.

He would not dare get close to Alrukir since the incident. During the sellsword's first week here, Brutus had taken one of his insults to heart and actually went into his cell to beat him. Only, the jailor instead ended up with half his ear bitten off. Alrukir earned the lash, as well as the eternal hatred of Brutus, but it was completely worth it to put that fat pig in his place.

He occasionally felt compelled to reply to the jibes, and this was one of those times. "I only hope it tastes as good as your ear, Brutus." The jailor's smug grin almost immediately disappeared and was replaced by a snarl. His fat face went bright red with fury and he started to reach for the mace at his hip, but realised the Redguard was too far away to reach.

"Well, enjoy it while you can, scum." he spat. "Every meal here could be your last. I could slit your throat now and no one would care."

"Why don't you, then?" asked Alrukir. The jailor made no reply, instead grunting angrily and retreating back up the stairs.

Alrukir glanced at the bread and kicked it to one side. He knew it was foolish to deny a meal down here, but he just was not hungry right now, especially not for bread harder than the walls of his cell. He took a gulp of water, laid back on his bedding roll and drifted to sleep.


	2. Unexpected Visitors

He awoke sometime at night, as sunlight was no longer streaming from the cell windows, and the candles hanging on the wall were the only things keeping the prison from being completely pitch black.

Alrukir sat up, rubbing his eyes as he slowly drifted awake. As his vision adjusted, he spotted the bright red eyes of a Dunmer watching him from the opposite cell.

"Ah, you're awake, Redguard." Valen Dreth rasped in his usual spiteful tone. "I was worried you'd never wake up." The sarcasm in his voice couldn't be more evident if he tried.

Alrukir pretended to ignore him, as he usually did. The fool was not worth his time anyway and he craved attention. The best thing to do was to deprive him of it. He picked up his flagon and took another swig.

"Heh, actually, dying in your sleep would be quite a kind way to go down here." Dreth continued. "There are far worse ways to die. I know, i've been in here longer than you. Seen all kinds of things down here. Seen a man get beat so hard he choked on his own blood. Happened in that cell right next to yours." He saw the Dark Elf gesture out of the corner of his eye. "I wonder how you'll go? That fat oaf Brutus seems to dislike you quite a lot. Maybe one night like this, he'll come in with a few of his buddies and put you down nice and slowly."

The Redguard couldn't resist responding. "And then that would leave only you in here, Dreth, one wimpy little elf with no one else to distract the guards from him. You'd be the centre of attention after they get rid of me." Dreth's eyes widened and he gave a nervous squeak. Alrukir turned and looked him in the eyes, a mocking, sadistic grin emerging on his face. " And you haven't bitten anyone's ear off, the guards aren't scared of you. They'd eat you alive. Maybe they'd rape you first. It's not just women that get raped, you know." At that, Dreth shrunk back, a terrified look on his face, but after a few seconds it vanished and was replaced with his usual arrogant smirk.

"That won't happen, you Redguard filth, because I'm getting out of here soon, so it will be you left alone with them. It will be you getting raped, not me. You'll see, years from now, you'll hear my name. 'Valen Dreth!' 'Valen!' 'Dreth!'"

Every one of their conversations ended in the elf shouting his name like some lunatic. "Yes, Dreth, as you've said a hundred times before, you're going to be rich and famous when you somehow get out of here, even though you've never told me how you plan on doing that or when."

Dreth's smirk turned to an angry snarl and he was about to make a retort when they both heard the door at the top of the stairs unlock and creak open in its usual extremely loud fashion.

Dreth let out a throaty laugh. "See? They might be coming to take care of you now. Heheheheh."

As the sound of metallic footsteps once again rang across the wing, Alrukir sighed, thinking that Brutus was once again coming to torment him. But then he made out the sound of multiple pairs of feet coming down the stairs, and unfamiliar voices. First, a female voice.

"Baurus! Lock that door behind us!"

Another voice rang out across the wing, this time, a wise-sounding old man's voice. "My sons… they're dead, aren't they?"

"We don't know that, Sire. The messenger only said they were attacked."

"No, they're dead. I know it."

"My job right now is to get you to safety."

Four people emerged from the doorway at the end of the hall. Three of them were clad head to toe in heavily ornamented plate armour. The third was an elderly man, dressed in luxurious-looking robes. A noble of some sort, Alrukir guessed.

"I know this place… the prison?" the old man said.

"Yes, your Majesty." replied the women, presumably the one in charge of the iron-clad soldiers. "Beneath the Legion compound. We're heading for a secret passage known only to the Blades. No one can follow us through there."

They approached Alrukir's cell and a look of concern emerged on the woman's face as she saw the Redguard sitting inside, watching them curiously.

"What's this prisoner doing here?" she asked, frustration evident in the tone of her voice. "This cell is supposed to be off limits!" She turned to the soldiers on either side of her, searching for an explanation. The man on her left, an Imperial, finally spoke.

"Usual mix-up at the watch. I…"

"Never mind. Get this gate open." she looked at Alrukir. "Stand back, prisoner! We won't hesitate to kill you if you get in our way!"

Seeing as he was completely unarmed and wearing rags, and they were fully clad in armour and had deadly-looking katanas at their sides, the sellsword did as she ordered. He took a few steps back and waited by the wall as the Imperial fumbled for a key and swung the cell door open.

The four stepped into the cell, the Imperial eyeing Alrukir suspiciously, hand wrapped around the hilt of his katana. As the woman checked around the panel on the wall, the old man looked at the sellsword and his blue eyes widened. He was aged and wrinkled, with long, white hair and skin that was very pale for an Imperial. Despite his appearance, there was a certain strength to him.

"You." he said, gazing at the sellsword with a look of both recognition and surprise. "I've seen you." He walked closer, until his face was mere inches from Alrukir's. "You are the one from my dreams. Then the stars were right, and this is the day. Gods give me strength." His voice was soft and barely more than a whisper, but, like his appearance, there was strength and confidence within it.

Alrukir returned the gaze for a few seconds, not quite sure how to respond to that. He eventually worked up a response, in his usual unsavoury tone. "What are you blathering about, old man?"

The Imperial soldier turned towards him, clearly agitated. "Watch you mouth when you've speaking to his Majesty, prisoner!"

Alrukir raised an eyebrow. "'His Majesty?'. Who are you?" he asked the old man.

"I am your Emperor, Uriel Septim. By the grace of the Gods, I serve Tamriel as her ruler. You are a citizen of Tamriel, and you too shall serve her in your own way."

"The Emperor?" Alrukir repeated, taken aback. "What are you doing here?"… "your Majesty" he added in a tone that was slightly mocking.

"Assassins attacked my sons, and I'm next." he replied, in a stern voice. "My Blades are leading me out of the city through a secret escape route. By chance, the entrance to that escape route leads through your cell."

Alrukir grunted. So that's who these people were. He had heard of the Emperor of Tamriel's secret service, but never actually seen them in person. Then again, if he had, they wouldn't have been a very good secret service.

"So, what's all this about dreams-" he started, but then he noticed the panel in the wall slide away, revealing a secret passage. '_This was in my cell the entire time, and i never knew?' _he thought.

"Please, Sire, we must keep moving." said the woman, who evidently had been searching for a switch of some kind while they were talking. The woman, the Emperor and the other Imperial started down the passage. The third blade, a fellow Redguard, closed the cell door behind him and locked it, turning to Alrukir afterwards.

"Looks like this is your lucky day." He said, his strong Cyrodiilic accent implying that despite being a Redguard, he was born and bred in the Imperial province. "Just stay out of our way." He turned and followed the others down the passage.

Alrukir definitely did not expect to be leaving this rathole today. He was finally free, assuming the Blades would tolerate his company. He would have to leave quickly though, before one of the guards discovered he was gone, but he wished he could see the look on Brutus' face when he realised.

He had one more thing to do, however. He walked to the cell door and looked at Dreth, who was standing there, gaping at what had just happened. Alrukir gave him another mocking grin. "Well, Dreth, looks like I'll be leaving you alone after all, and not the way you expected. Tell Brutus I'm sorry I couldn't give him a proper farewell. I'm sure he'd love to vent his grief on you in my place, though."

With that, he left the Dark Elf standing there, gripping his cell bars in disbelief, and started down the passage, hoping to catch up to the Emperor and his bodyguards.


	3. The Jaws of Oblivion

Alrukir and his mismatched new companions travelled down a set of winding stone hallways, deep under the Imperial City Prison. They soon came to an ancient room with a door at one end, down a short flight of steps and past a series of pillars. As they entered, the captain, Renault, they called her, stopped in her tracks and held up a hand, signalling for them to stop. She drew her Katana suspiciously and paced into the room slowly.

From the sides of the room jumped several figures in red robes, at least twelve of them. Alrukir looked up and saw platforms on each side, lined with doors, which was where the assailants must have come from. The figures were brandishing all manner of weapons and charged straight for the group.

"Close up left!" barked the captain. "Protect the Emperor!" The rest of the blades drew their weapons and formed a semicircle around Uriel Septim. Renault knocked one of the assailants back with the hilt of her katana, then sliced open their belly. Blood gushed from the wound, and from their hood, as they collapsed on the ground. As their hood fell back, Alrukir saw it was a young Imperial male, choking up his own blood. Renault plunged her sword into him to finish him off. The other Blades were busy hacking apart the rest of the red robed figures, the colour of their robes hiding the blood that was covering them.

Alrukir knelt down and picked up a steel shortsword next to one of the corpses. "Won't be needing this anymore." the sellsword muttered. He tightened his grip around the hilt and rubbed it between his fingers. It was the first time he had held steel in a while. He was much more used to scimitars, but a straight sword was just as good for killing.

He was just in time. A tall, knife-wielding assailant was charging for him, emitting a blood-curdling shriek that made him sound like a madman. Alrukir grabbed his knife hand and pushed it back, then thrust his sword through the man's chest. Now he had a clear view of his face, he saw that his attempted killer was a high elf, blood erupting from his mouth and running down his chest, the life draining from his golden eyes. He waited a few seconds, then ripped out the blade, allowing the elf to fall in a heap on the floor.

He spun around just in time to see one of them advancing on the Emperor, longsword in hand. He dashed forward and kicked them in the shin as they raised the sword to make killing blow. They stumbled to one knee and he yanked their head back, seeing it was a human female, possibly a Breton. Without hesitation, he ran the shortsword across her throat. As blood ran down her opened neck, he kicked the corpse down at Uriel's feet.

Baurus the Redguard finished off the last of them, who was feebly attempting to crawl away, with one leg hacked off. He turned to the sellsword. "Heh, perhaps you're not as useless as you look."

"I'll take that as a compliment." grunted Alrukir in response.

"Captain!" they heard a cry of grief from behind, and turned to see the Imperial blade, Glenroy, hunched over Renault, who was lying on the floor, a sword buried deep in her ribcage.

Baurus rushed over and knelt beside his comrades. Alrukir walked over to look, as the Emperor watched over with his usual wise expression, mixed with concern. The captain was still alive, but barely, gritting her teeth in pain as blood gushed from the open wound.

"Come on, captain, let us help you up." said Glenroy. He and Baurus wrapped their arms around her in an attempt to lift her, but she cried out in pain and they set her down again.

Alrukir looked on unsympathetically. "She'll just be a burden in this state." he muttered. "Cut her throat and be done with it." The sellsword was not exactly known for his sense of empathy.

"Watch your tongue, prisoner!" warned Baurus, anger evident in his usually calm voice.

"You speak of our captain!" hissed Glenroy, turning to face the mercenary.

The sound of Renault's voice caused them to turn back to their fallen comrade, forgetting their sudden anger. "He's right" she rasped in a deep but quiet voice that made it clear she was close to death. " Our mission is to protect the Emperor. He is our priority."

"The blades do not leave men or women behind!" said Glenroy in a determined voice. "We _can _get you out of here, find you healing magic or-"

"No…" she cut him off. "We all know… what we signed up for. Blades swear to die in service of the Emperor… and that's what I'm… doing." she coughed up blood. "Just… do it…"

Alrukir was leaning against a pillar, staring at the ceiling impatiently. "I'll do it, if you haven't the stomach." he offered.

Glenroy bolted upwards and spun to face the sellsword. "You lay a finger on our captain and I'll cut your wretched heart out!" he spat. He stared at Alrukir for a few seconds, then forgot his fury and turned back towards Renault, looking into her eyes. She returned his gaze with saddened eyes and he got the message.

He pulled out a dagger at his waist, knelt down beside his captain, looked at her a few seconds longer and, after she nodded, he ended it quickly.

Glenroy rose, with the dead captain's Akaviri katana in hand. "We should return this to Cloud Ruler Temple." he said solemnly, the rage from the previous minute completely gone, and a stoic, dutiful demeanour in its place.

"Her bravery will be remembered." agreed Baurus. "We need to press on. Come on, your Majesty."

Glenroy unlocked the wooden door at the end of the room with his key that seemed to unlock everything. The Emperor and the two remaining Blades went through. As Alrukir tried to follow them, Baurus turned to close the door behind him. "You stay here, prisoner. Don't try and follow us."

"Wait-" he began, but it was too late. Baurus slammed the door shut and he heard the familiar clicking of a key in the lock. "Damn it!" spat the sellsword. He turned the doorknob and shook it violently, despite common sense telling him it was of no use, but it would not budge.

Perhaps the Blade had been offended by his nonchalant tone, perhaps he just thought Alrukir would be a burden. Either way, despite everything, he was now trapped here, just like he had been trapped for a month. '_I saved his Emperor's life, the ungrateful bastard!' _thought Alrukir, infuriated. He spat on the door and gave it a hard kick, not to open it, but to vent his rage.

He was unsure what to do now. He could not go back to the prison, or he would likely spend the rest of his life there now, or worse. They had probably discovered he was gone by now and raised the alarm, if that rat Valen hadn't called for them already. However, his only other option was to stay here and rot. Maybe if he spent enough time at it, he could carve his way through the door, but by then the guards would likely have followed the passage and dragged him back to the prison in chains.

As he sat on the cold stone floor, pondering his options, he noticed what looked like a weak spot in the wall. The stones that formed it were coming loose, and there were several cracks in it, showing darkness beyond. He walked over and examined it. Pushing on the wall, it felt extremely weak and likely to fall apart at a significant impact. He gave it a hard kick out of sheer desperation, almost expecting to break his leg, but the section of wall gave and crumbled back, revealing a cavern.

The gods must truly have blessed him. He thought back to what the old Emperor had said about his dreams. Could he be some kind of chosen one, like they talked about in all those legends? Or was the Emperor just a babbling old fool? The sellsword was not usually the superstitious type, so he put the thought to the back of his mind and concentrated on getting out of here.

He pulled himself through the wall, sword in hand. Anything could appear in these caves and dungeons. However, all he saw were a couple of oversized rats, which he killed with ease. These were nothing compared to some of the giant rats they had in Hammerfell.

This secret area appeared to be some kind of natural cavern. He pressed on through the cave, fighting his way past more rats and even encountered a zombie. This cave must have been next to a burial crypt. After passing through a series of tunnels, caverns and dungeons, even discovering a goblin nest, which he fought his way through, he found himself back in the familiar catacombs he and the Blades had been in.

He was on a ledge overlooking a small room. As he moved closer to the edge, he heard voices. "We need to find a defensible spot and protect the Emperor until help arrives." It was Glenroy. He shifted closer and looked over the edge. Below he saw the two Blades and the Emperor planning their next move.

"Help? What makes you think help is coming?!" Baurus angrily retorted to his comrade. "We need to keep mov-" He was interrupted when several more red robed figures emerged through the doorways at the side of the room.

"Protect the Emperor!" screamed Glenroy. They engaged the crimson attackers while the sellsword climbed down steadily, using loose bricks and stones for support. By the time he reached the bottom, there were several red heaps lying on the floor and the Blades were sheathing their katanas. Glenroy caught sight of Alrukir out of the corner of his eye, and spun to face him.

"Dammit! It's that prisoner again!" he spat. "Kill him! He might be working with the assassins!"

The two blades drew their katanas again and advanced on Alrukir. He, in turn, raised his sword and backed towards the narrow hallway behind him, preparing to fight. Even with a puny shortsword he was deadly, and he had fought more powerful opponents than these two before.

"No." Uriel Septim said. "He is not one of them. He can help us. He _must _help us." Glenroy and Baurus gave each other a curious glance before sheathing their katanas, still eyeing Alrukir with suspicion.

"As you wish, sire" said Glenroy, even though his tone showed his disapproval of the Emperor's command.

Uriel approached Alrukir, giving the sellsword the same dire look of recognition he had back in the cell. The Emperor did not seem to have any sense of personal space, getting close up to the Redguard's face again. "They cannot understand why I trust you. How can I explain? Listen. You know the Nine? How they guide our fates with an invisible hand?"

"I'm not on good terms with the Gods." Alrukir replied.

The Emperor continued. "I've served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens." Alrukir wondered where this was going. "The skies are marked with numberless sparks, each a fire, and every one a sign. I know these stars well, and I wonder… which sign marked your birth?"

"I was born in the year 400 of the Third Era, on the Fifth of Last Seed." the sellsword informed him. "So, my sign is the Warrior."

The Emperor gave a nod of understanding. "The signs I read show the end of my path. My death, a necessary end, will come when it will come."

Alrukir still did not understand the meaning of all this talk of signs and dreams. "What does all this have to do with me?" he asked.

"This, you will come to know in time. For now, you shall follow us for a while. Then, we must part."

The old man began to proceed down the next hallway and the blades began to follow. Still pondering on the cryptic words, Alrukir joined them. They passed down through more and more corridors and it gradually got darker until Baurus gave him a torch to carry. They were harassed by a few more robed attackers on the way, but they were very little threat for three skilled swords. Soon, they reached a room similar to the one Renault had died in, but much bigger. As they reached the bottom of the steps, they caught sight of a gate to their right. When Glenroy attempted to open it, it refused to budge. The Imperial cursed. "Dammit, it's locked!" he snarled. "A trap!"

Baurus pointed to a narrow side passage leading to nowhere in particular, by the looks of it. "What about this way?"

"Worth a try." replied Glenroy. "Let's go."

Their hopes were short lived, however. the room was completely bare, with no exits or entrances apart from where they came from. Suddenly, the sound of creaking doors rang out from the room behind them. "They're behind us!" hissed Glenroy. He drew his katana and jogged down the hallway.

Baurus drew his and prepared to follow, but first turned to Alrukir. "Wait here with the Emperor." he commanded. "Guard him with your life." he disappeared after his comrade.

"As if I haven't already, you ungrateful bastard" muttered the sellsword under his breath. Normally, he would be paid for something like this.

As roaring and clashing of steel rang out in the previous room, he paced around, sword ready in his hand, looking for any openings in the room, but there were none to be found. He hoped all this effort wasn't for nothing. Surely they would be able to get that gate open somehow. "I can go no further." He turned to see Uriel Septim gazing at him in his usual close-up fashion. "You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants. He must not have the Amulet of Kings!"

The sellsword still had no idea what he was talking about and still wondered if the old man was just plain mad. "Uh.. Prince of Destruction? Amulet of Kings?"

Before he could say more, however, the Emperor thrust something into his hands. It was an amulet, with a glimmering ruby in its centre. "Take the amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son."

Alrukir was so confused that he did not notice the wall panel in the alcove next the the Emperor slide open, or the assassin's sword pierce Uriel's heart. He looked up and saw the Emperor still looking him straight in the eyes, barely managing to breathe. "Find him…. and close shut….. the jaws… of Oblivion….." he whispered, then collapsed on the ground as the assassin withdrew his blade.

Alrukir shoved the strange trinket into his pocked and prepared for action. The assassin was a large, imposing figure wearing some hellish-looking armour over his robes, presumably some kind of conjured Daedric. The weapon he had used to kill the Emperor was a Daedric longsword. "Die, servant of the false Emperor!" he spat in a deep, guttural voice before launching himself forward.

Alrukir raised his sword just in time to block the swing. It was powerful, and knocked him back a few steps. He dodged the next few swings before trying to deliver a crippling kick to the assassin's shin, but the man anticipated it, and leapt back, slashing his sword in an arc which would have cut the sellsword's belly open had he not thrust it back. The two warriors circled each other for a few seconds, one never taking his eyes off the other. The assassin once again made the first move, darting forward with surprising speed, but not quite fast enough to take Alrukir off guard. He dodged around the blade as the man thrust it, and smashed his hilt into his shoulder blade, causing him to stumble back towards the wall.

As the Redguard turned around, he saw a flame appear in the man's hand, and dodged as he threw a fireball, which zipped past his head and exploded against the wall. He charged forward and locked blades with the assassin, the screech of steel on steel echoing across the catacombs. While the man was distracted, he slammed his knee into his abdomen. His armour caused Alrukir to grimace in pain, but the strength of the kick partially shattered it and caused the man to keel over in pain.

Alrukir saw a weak spot in the armor, under the armpit, and thrust his sword in. The man roared in pain as he twisted it, causing more blood to gush out of the wound. As the man tried to attack him again, he pushed his sword hand back and slammed it against the wall, then ripped out his shortsword, kicking the assassin in the shin and causing him to stumble. He grabbed his head and pushed it back against the wall. "I am no one's servant!" he spat, then rammed his sword deep through the assassin's throat. Blood trickled out of the openings in his mask as the conjured armour and sword vanished into thin air, and Alrukir saw it was a Dark Elf, his red eyes now completely lifeless.

When he turned, he saw Baurus standing in the doorway, mouth open, gaping at the sight of his dead Emperor. The Blade rushed over and knelt next to Uriel Septim's body, gently sliding his eyes shut with his fingers. Alrukir casually strolled across the room as the Blade rose slowly, still in disbelief.

"We've failed." Baurus finally worked up the strength to say. "The Blades are sworn to protect the Emperor and now he and all his heirs are _dead_." he spat the last word with a burning anger.

Suddenly he jerked his head up from his contemplation. "The Amulet! Where's the Amulet of Kings? It wasn't on the Emperor's body!"

"He gave it to me." the sellsword informed him, pulling the strange amulet from his pocket and dangling it by the chain. Baurus turned, looking at the amulet, and nodded in understanding.

"Strange. He saw something in you. Trusted you. They say it's the dragon blood that runs through the veins of every Septim. They see things lesser men can't. The Amulet of Kings is a sacred symbol of the Empire. Only a true heir of the blood can wear it, they say." After a few seconds of silence, he looked from the amulet to Alrukir. "He must have had a reason. Did he say why?"

"He told me to take it to Jauffre, whoever that is. He also said something about his last son, and how this 'Jauffre' is the only one who knows about him."

Baurus looked confused. "Nothing I ever heard of, but Jauffre would be the one to know. He's the Grandmaster of our order, although you wouldn't know it just by looking at him. He was a great warrior in his prime, but now he lives quietly as a monk in Chorrol." He took a glance down at the Emperor's body one more time, then looked back at the sellsword. "I don't know why his Majesty chose _you_ of all people, but he did, and that's what matters. You must go straight to Chorrol, and keep the amulet safe. This is your number one priority. Understand?"

Alrukir had never been one for taking orders, nor for doing jobs without a gold price, so he didn't like where this was going. "Hold on there, Blade. I'm no one's errand boy, not even your Emperor's."

"He's not just _my _Emperor, he's _your _Emperor as well, prisoner!" the fellow Redguard spat. "You have been chosen. The fate of the world may rest in your hands."

Alrukir laughed mockingly. "Chosen one or not, I'm a sellsword, I've always been a sellsword and I always will be."

"A sellsword?" repeated Baurus, raising an eyebrow. "I guess that makes sense, considering your… temperament. Look, if you want a reward, I'm sure you'll get one in time. Being a hero of Tamriel has its benefits, you know. But you're not leaving here until you give me your word that you will get that amulet safely to Jauffre in Chorrol."

Alrukir sighed. "Ok, I promise I'll deliver it to this 'Jauffre' person." he was half-lying of course, for he had still not decided what to do. "But after I've done that, my part in this is over and I expect a bloody large reward for my service to the Empire."

"Good enough…" said Baurus. "…for now. Now go, we don't know how much time we have. Do you know how to get to Chorrol."

"I'll find my way." replied the sellsword. "I always find my way."

"I'll stay here and guard the Emperor's body. The attackers opened that gate back there from behind. There's a manhole to the sewer just past it. I assume that will take you out of here. There's rats and goblins down there, but I'm guessing as a sellsword, you've fought much worse right?"

"You have no idea." Alrukir informed him, giving him a brief nod then setting off back into the last room. He passed the corpse of Glenroy on his way to the gate, slumped against the wall with his neck slashed open and his torso caked with blood. As Baurus had said, there was a manhole there. Alrukir pulled it off fairly easily and climbed down into the sewers within, anticipating his coming freedom, which was within his grasp.


	4. A Strange Land

After a few hours of traipsing through the sludge and grime of the sewers, fighting his way past rats and goblins, Alrukir found his way into the outside world at last. As he left the sewer, he caught sight of the early morning sun rising, creeping its way over the hills, indicating that dawn was approaching.

He appeared to be on some sort of island in the middle of a lake. Far to his left was a long, stone bridge to the other side of the lake. Being from Hammerfell, he was not used to all the brightness and green he saw around him, hills and trees lining the landscape. He was in a strange land, indeed.

Turning around, he saw, up at the top of the hill, the Imperial City in all it's ancient glory, the unmistakable White-Gold Tower in the centre being the first thing that caught his eye. Before he could go there, he needed a change of clothes. The guards would be on high alert after news of his escape, though most likely distracted by the coming news of their Emperor's death. Still, it would not do to walk around the Imperial City dressed in prisoner's rags. He spied a lone fisherman sitting on the edge of a nearby dock, pulling a net out of the water and cursing when he saw his lack of catches. An idea popped into the Redguard's head, and he approached the fisherman. When he got close, the fisherman, an aged, gaunt man with thinning grey hair turned and looked at him from head to toe, then sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Begone with ye, I got no septims for ye." he rasped. "Barely got enough to feed me own family, never mind the likes of you."

The Redguard ignored his comments. "What you fishing for?" he asked, as the man stood up to fetch more bait from a bucket. the fisherman sighed again.

"Anything that's stupid enough to get caught. Mudcrabs, slaughterfish, that kind of thing." he replied without looking at Alrukir, leaning into his bucket to get more bait. "Now if you've no more silly ques-" All it took was a swift hit to the back of his head with Alrukir's sword hilt to knock him out cold. He slumped over the bucket, unconscious.

Alrukir stripped him of his clothes, some tattered overalls not much better than his own, but at least he couldn't be recognised as a criminal this way. He also found an iron dagger and a small purse of septims on the fisherman. "I need these more than you do." he muttered, even though the man obviously couldn't hear him.

In his new attire, he set off up the hill towards the city, leaving his old rags in a heap next to the fisherman, who was now completely naked except for a loincloth wrapped around his groin. '_Might as well leave him something in return._' he thought.

He entered the Imperial City through the main gate just past the prison, where he was locked up just last night. He found himself in what they called the Market District, likely the most bustling area of the city. He grew up in Sentinel and had travelled all around Hammerfell and High Rock, so he was no stranger to big cities, but this was quite possibly the largest and most crowded one he had ever seen. It appeared news of the Emperor's death hadn't spread yet, or possibly the Legion were keeping it a secret for now. One way or another, word would get out eventually. It always did.

After asking a few strangers where he could find a strong drink and a good meal, they directed him to the Feed Bag, to the far left of the Market District. A guard would be more knowledgeable, but he was still cautious about approaching one. They may have been informed of his escape and given his description, and the image of a lean, bearded, sinister-looking Redguard would be difficult to forget.

After reaching the pub he took a seat in the corner, using the fisherman's septims to pay for a huge breakfast and a flagon of ale. It was the first time he'd tasted alcohol on his lips in ages, as well as a half-decent meal. As he chewed on a rasher of bacon, he contemplated his next move. He had in his possession what was possibly the most prized artefact in the entire Empire. But what would he do with it? '_I should sell it.' _he thought. '_I'd be a rich man for the rest of my days._' But then he remembered the Emperor's last words. "_Close shut the jaws of Oblivion._"

He was distracted from his thoughts when he gazed to the far end of the pub. On the table farthest from him sat a Dark Elf and a Nord. The Dunmer was wearing leather armor, reinforced by chainmail, a mace strapped to his thigh. He was very gaunt, a dark beard hanging from the chin of his horselike face, his ruby eyes fixated on the Redguard. Alrukir could have sworn he had seen him somewhere before. The Nord, however, he knew he had never seen before. If he had, he would most certainly not forget him. He was likely the largest man he had ever seen, probably well over seven feet tall if he stood up. His arms and legs were like two pairs of tree trunks, his entire body thick with muscle, which stood out even through the animal furs he was wearing. His face was covered in scars, thick, brown stubble lined his massive chin, and his hair ran down to his shoulders, wild and loose.

The Dark Elf muttered something to the Nord, who was taking a huge swig of ale. Both their eyes then flickered towards Alrukir, and the sellsword returned their stare. He had many enemies in this world, and perhaps these were among them. The two men got up and started walking towards him. He gripped the hilt of his sword, eyeing them cautiously. However, they passed by him instead, heading for the door. Watching them as they walked away, he saw that the Nord had a fine steel battle-axe strapped to his back, as large as a fully grown man and carved in Nordic fashion.

When the sinister individuals had gone, he returned to his thoughts about the amulet and the Emperor. He had mentioned Oblivion, the realm of the Daedra, and something about a 'Prince of Destruction.' Perhaps Uriel was just a crazy old man, but if he wasn't… the fate of Tamriel could be at stake, and that meant _his _fate was at stake. He knew he was probably a fool for giving in to superstition, but he decided on making the journey to Chorrol and delivering the trinket to this 'Jauffre' character. There, he would put this whole matter to rest at last, and demand a reasonable price for fulfilling the dead Emperor's last wish.

It was a long journey to Chorrol, however. It was far West of here, and he had no doubt the roads would be teeming with highwaymen and Gods know what else, especially after the chaos resulting from the Emperor's death. He would need supplies. Weapons, armour, a horse, all manner of potions, food and drink. All of which would cost a great deal of septims. There were likely plenty of things he could do around here to make money.

He left his empty plate and tankard at the table and approached the publican who ran the Feed Bag, a Dark Elf, who was cleaning a tankard with a ragged cloth "Good day." he greeted him. He usually tried to put on a polite tone when speaking to strangers. The elf looked at him with a friendly smile, while continuing his work. He continued, "I'm new to this city. Do you know how I could make some quick money around here?"

The Dunmer's reply was almost instant. "Well, many would get a job at one of the shops around the Marketplace, but you look like the fighting sort." he said, eyeing the sellsword up and down. "Why not try the arena? It's just past that gate outside, on the East side of the city. There's good money to be made from it, assuming you can handle yourself in a couple of fights."

Alrukir nodded. "Thank you, friend." He turned to leave as the Dunmer went off to attend to a customer. As he got to the door, it swung open with a crash, and a simply dressed, grey-haired Imperial jogged in.

"Black Horse Courier! Breaking news!" he yelled, so everyone in the pub could hear. People looked up from their breakfasts, gazing at the source of the noise. "Emperor Uriel Septim VII dead! Murdered by unknown assassins!"

Before the Redguard could even get through the door, people had risen and rushed over to the Imperial, surrounding him in a great crowd and taking the tabloids he was handing out, muttering to each other in a variety of tones: shock, awe, confusion, fear. Alrukir pushed past them and slipped out of the door into the Market District before he could hear anymore.

It seemed reactions were the same outside. Crowds of people were gathered, deep in conversation, reading and waving about their Black Horse Couriers. He passed rows of concerned faces, some even crying, as guards rushed about frantically. He heard a mad old beggar dressed in dirty rags screaming about the 'end times'. For some reason, he reminded Alrukir of the Emperor.

People had apparently heard varying versions of the story, thanks to the misconceptions resulting from word of mouth. "I heard his Majesty got done in by an escaped prisoner!" spat a toothless, balding old man.

"No, you old fool." growled a frustrated sounding woman, who appeared, judging by her skimpy clothing, to be a prostitute. "It was them Blades what done it. The prisoner tried to save ol' Uriel, but got killed trying, bless his soul."

"Watch your tongue, woman." warned a fair-haired young nobleman. "His Majesty was killed by assassins in red. My lord father knows the Blades. They were trying to get him to safety, but the prisoner was paid off and her led them to a dead end. The red assassins ambushed them and summoned a huge, monstrous Daedra, who killed everyone."

Doing his best to ignore some of the laughable stories he was hearing, he pushed his way past the roaring crowds of citizens until he found the gate the Dark Elf had spoken of. This would lead to the arena, where he would fight until he had enough gold for his journey.


	5. Death on the Sands

The Arena stood right in front of him, a glorious, towering structure. It was ancient, like the rest of the Imperial City. At the entrance stood a long line of people, presumably waiting to bet on the next fight. A golden haired Wood Elf was collecting the betting money, beside a large chest which apparently contained all the Arena's funds. Alrukir thought about how much money must be in there as he approached the alcove where the elf stood.

"Hey, there's a queue you know!" snarled a finely dressed Breton waiting in the middle of the line. A cold glare from the grizzled sellsword shut the pompous fool right up.

He turned to the elf. "Where do I go if I want to fight?"

"That door there leads to the Bloodworks." the Bosmer replied, while collecting money from an Argonian. He motioned towards the door on Alrukir's left. "Speak to Owyn if you want a match, he's the Blademaster. Redguard, like you. Usually wears plate armour. Just be careful, he's not the friendliest of fellows."

"I'm sure I've dealt with worse." muttered Alrukir as he made his way into the Bloodworks.

The Bloodworks certainly lived up to their name. They were a small, cramped place, made even worse by the hordes of gladiators training, not paying any regard to their surroundings. Grates lined the edges of the room and the floor was stained with the blood or those who had never returned from the arena. All manner of weapons were stored in racks, which the gladiators were presumably free to use. Training dummies and targets for archers were not scarce, either.

Weaving his way around the training warriors, the sellsword turned into an an arched doorway and found himself in a smaller side-room. He stumbled against the wall when someone backed into him, hitting him with a great amount of force. Turning, he saw it was a Nord woman, about a head taller than him, wearing yellow armour and holding a steel longsword in her hand. She had shoulder-length light brown hair and blue eyes, with the usual fair complexion of a Nord. She gazed at him with a hostile glare.

"Watch it maggot!" she spat. "I'm training here, why don't you fuck off upstairs where's it's safe?"

The Redguard's eyes did not leave hers. "Heh, if you're a gladiator, you may want to work on your awareness. Not knowing what's behind you could cost you your life."

Her expression did not change. "Watch that tongue of yours, Redguard. Keep running your mouth and I might cut it out and keep it as a trophy."

"I was only giving you some friendly advice. you may need it. After all, I was planning on joining as a combatant and we may meet in there one day." A mocking smirk appeared on his face. "Then you'd be in trouble."

The Nord woman let out a roar of laughter, highly audible even over the clang of steel that filled the works. "Hah! You? Fight me? In your dreams, worm. I am a Champion. You're not even a Pit Dog!"

"You're a Champion for now." the sellsword warned. "I doubt you've fought someone like me yet."

The Nord was about to make a retort when someone spoke from across the room, in a gruff, nonchalant voice. "Did I hear you say you're joining as a combatant?"

They both looked and saw a Redguard walking towards them, wearing rusty Iron plate armour. Dark stubble covered his chin and he had a grizzled appearance. Alrukir guessed he had seen a lot of combat in his time.

The Nord woman turned back to slicing the training dummy with her longsword, after giving Alrukir one last hateful glance, while he approached the fellow Redguard.

"Yes, I was hoping to get a few matches, make some money. I take it you're the Blademaster? Owyn?"

"That I am." The Blademaster eyed the sellsword up an down, before emitting an unimpressed grunt. "You don't look like much. But then, you can't be any worse than some of the other maggots we've had down here."

He was trying to decide whether or not to take that as a compliment when Owyn spoke again. "Well, what the fuck are you waiting for, Pit Dog? Take those rags off and get your battle raiment on!" he barked, his sudden change of tone taking Alrukir by surprise. He had forgotten about his ragged clothes, which almost would have made him look like a common civilian if not for his grizzled, scarred appearance. "They're in those cupboards over there."

Rummaging through said cupboards and finally finding a light blue raiment in his size, he returned to Owyn while slipping it on. It was poor quality armour, but it was better than the fisherman's tatters he had on before.

"Light raiment, eh?" growled the Blademaster, raising an eyebrow. "Took you for the heavy armour type. You know, hide behind a skin of steel?"

"Heavy armour just slows you down." replied the sellsword, ignoring Owyn's mockery. "I like to be light on my feet in battle."

"Ok, whatever. It just so happens we have a match for you, if you're interested. Just try not to bleed too much when you die, it'll give us less work to do."

He once again chose to ignore the Blademaster's mocking tone. "What's the pay?"

"For a Pit Dog like you, 50 septims per match."

They both turned as the gate slid open and an Argonian holding a bloodied axe returned from his fight.

"Looks like you're up, Pit Dog. Get your arse up that ramp and take your death like a man."

Alrukir grabbed a rusted iron longsword from one of the weapon racks. Not exactly fine metalwork, but it was better than the butter knife of a sword he had now. He then jogged up the ramp, taking care not to slip on the fresh blood that covered it. Going through a door, covered in blood like everything else in there, and up some steps, he found himself looking through a gate into the body of an Imperial, his skull split wide open, was being dragged off by some guards, his head leaving a trail of blood.

Above, hundreds of citizens filled the stands, roaring for more blood. Alrukir would most certainly give it to them. He saw someone emerge behind the gate on the other side of the arena, garbed in yellow, although he was not close enough to make out who they were.

"People of the Imperial City!" boomed a deep voice from far above, some kind of announcer. "Welcome to the Arena! Here today, we have two brand new Pit Dogs ready to fight to the death for your entertainment!"

"Get on with it, you pompous twat." muttered the sellsword, as the announcer droned on and on. He had no patience for these fools and their bloodlust, he just wanted his money.

"…so without further ado, open the gates!"

The iron bars slid down and he stepped onto the sand, advancing cautiously on his opponent, who was charging at full pelt. As they got closer, he saw it was a female Wood Elf, wielding a steel longsword and wearing a leather half-helm along with her raiment. He thought she looked young, but you never knew with elves. Some of them could live for thousands of years.

As she charged , she was roaring wildly and flailing her sword around like a madwoman, her golden eyes filled with battle rage. She was hotheaded and foolhardy, and Alrukir knew she would go down easily. If the sellsword had any compassion, he would have felt sorry for her. She was young and ambitious, with her entire life ahead of her, had joined the arena with false hopes of attaining glory and honour, hoping to make a name for herself, and she was about to be slaughtered by a nonchalant cutthroat hoping to make some quick gold.

He was proved right when, as they met over the large grate that drained the blood into the Bloodworks below, she carelessly swung her blade for his neck like a butcher hacking at a piece of meat. He easily caught her by the wrist and shoved her arm back, then thrust his sword through her neck. He let go of her arm and her lifeless corpse dropped to the ground, blood running into the grate by the litres, while the crowd roared and cheered, their lust for blood satisfied.

Crouching down, he wiped his blade clean on her raiment, then turned back and headed for the Bloodworks, while the announcer yelled some dribble about it being the shortest duel in arena history.

Back in the Bloodworks, he once again dodged past the training gladiators and found Owyn, who had just returned from watching the duel.

"Well, ain't that a surprise." the Blademaster muttered, showing a grudging respect for the Pit Dog. "You know how to fight. Just try to put on more of a show next time, the crowd tends to get bored of two-second matches. Here's your gold. Now piss off."

But he wasn't done yet. He had just earned 50 septims, but he needed much more. he would spend the rest of the day fighting in duels. The next two weren't much more difficult than his fight against the Bosmer. In his second duel of the day, he cut down an Imperial swordsman, and in his third he sliced apart an Argonian archer. After returning from hacking the lizard to pieces, Owyn handed him his standard 50 septims.

"Congratulations, Pit Dog." the Blademaster growled, not showing a single hint of enthusiasm in his voice. "Or should I say, Brawler. That's right, you've actually advanced in rank. You're actually not half bad. Heck, maybe at this rate you'll survive until the end of the day!" He let out a roar of mocking laughter. "Anyway, got another match for you, if you're not sick of fighting yet. An axe-wielding Nord barbarian. Interested?"

"Always." replied Alrukir, not actually showing any interest in his tone.

"Good. Now get up there, Brawler."

After heading up the ramp and through the door for the fourth time that day, Alrukir once again found himself waiting impatiently for the announcer to finish his obnoxiously long speech. Some in the audience appeared to share his sentiment, yelling for the gates to be opened so they could get their money.

The gates once again slid open and both combatants advanced on each other. The Nord, like most of his kind, was tall and had long, flowing blonde hair, as well as being heavily muscled. His blue eyes were fixed on Alrukir, just as the sellsword's black eyes were fixed on him. He raised his single-bladed iron war axe menacingly, then let out a savage war cry and lunged for the Redguard.

Alrukir dodged the first few swings, not attempting to block or parry, as his opponent was bigger than him, and probably stronger, unlike the tiny Bosmer from his first duel. He then slashed his longsword in an arc, just being close enough to slice under the Nord's armpit. The barbarian grimaced in pain as blood ran down his side, but he carried on fighting. He hurled himself into the sellsword headfirst without warning, knocking him on his back as the crowd roared in excitement.

As he approached, raising his axe, Alrukir dug his heels deep into the sand and kicked upwards as hard as he could. A large cloud of sand smashed into the Nord's face, causing him to cry out and clutch his face, temporarily blinded.

Alrukir pulled himself to his feet and landed a kick into the Nord's exposed abdomen, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to stumble to his knees. "Rot in Oblivion, you honourless sack of shit!" snarled the Nord, squinting through his sand-filled eyes and spitting at the Redguard.

Alrukir pulled out the dagger he stole from the fisherman and yanked the Nord's head back by his hair. "Nothing worse than a sore loser." he chuckled, and sliced his neck from ear to ear. He released his hair, letting him fall to the ground as he choked up his own blood to the cheers of the crowd.

Back in the Bloodworks, Owyn shoved another sack of gold into his hands, this one significantly larger than the others. "100 septims for a Brawler. Don't spend it all at once." he said, the sarcasm in his voice evident.

Pocketing the gold, Alrukir glanced at the Blademaster. "Got any more fools for me to slice apart?"

"I most certainly have." replied Owyn. "But you can't fight them just now. Arena closes at Nine. And it's Nine now. Go take a break, you'll need all the rest you can get if you plan on fighting in the morning."

Heeding the Blademaster's advice, he turned to leave the Bloodworks, first returning his borrowed longsword to its rack, having cleaned the blood, a combination of that of mer and men, off it.

"You fight well, Redguard." Alrukir turned around to see a man wearing a heavy blue raiment approaching him. He was an Imperial, though pale for one, with sapphire eyes and fairly long, light brown hair. The sort of man women considered very handsome, with a thin nose and a large, protruding chin with a deep cleft in the middle. He was a few inches taller than Alrukir. "I'm Sir Titus of the house Goldvale of Anvil." He held out a hand with a friendly smile.

"I'm Alrukir." said the Redguard, shaking his hand. "Of… nothing." he added, jokingly. "Knight, eh?" He had no love for knights. Gallant fools with ridiculous ideas of 'chivalry' and 'honour'.

The Imperial nodded."I haven't seen you here before today. What brings you to the Arena?"

"I need to make a long journey." replied the sellsword, not being foolish enough to tell him of the details. "And I need gold for supplies. Lots of gold. What about you?"

"I'm just passing through the city, so I decided to try out my skill at the Arena. I'm part of the Fighter's Guild, so I was returning from some contracts. I assume you've heard of them?"

Alrukir nodded. "We have one in Hammerfell." He had indeed encountered the Fighter's Guild before, but he had not seen fit to join them. He was not fond of large organisations, being more of a lone wolf and preferring small groups at the largest. He also didn't like taking orders like some kind of servant. Nor did he approve of the Guild. They tried to act like honourable warriors, and looked down on people like him, when in fact they were just like him, mercenaries fighting for the highest bidder.

"Well, I had better be going." announced the knight. "Got a long day ahead of me tomorrow."

"As do I." replied the sellsword, giving Titus a friendly nod as he turned for the stairs. However, he had a thought. "Hey." The knight turned after Alrukir spoke. "Is there anywhere to stay in the city?"

The Imperial chuckled. "Of course there are, plenty of places. If you're not fussed about luxury, there's the Merchant's Inn in the Market District. That's where I'm staying."

"Ok, thank you." replied the sellsword. There were bedding rolls in the Bloodworks that the gladiators were free to use and he usually had no problem with sleeping rough, but he'd had enough of laying on cold stone floors. He wanted a proper bed tonight.

The streets of the Imperial City had quieted down since the chaos earlier, most likely due to it being night-time now and the news of Uriel's demise being announced this morning. On his way to the inn that the knight had recommended, he passed several beggars, a few of which pleaded for septims as he passed. Some guards on night duty carrying torches marched past him. He kept his head down as they went by, as he still couldn't be too careful. A couple of drunks stumbled past him. When one tried to hold on to him for support he violently threw him off, after which the man muttered some slurred curses and tried to find his feet. He had no patience for drunken fools, especially when he was this tired. As he passed the Feed Bag, the sound of music, loud voices and laughter echoed out onto the street, the mood of the establishment evidently changed since earlier.

A sign saying 'Merchant's Inn' caught his eye, hanging next to a wooden door. As he entered, he saw the Inn was small and fairly quiet, with just a few people sitting at the tables in the main room. As he tossed a bag of septims to the Innkeeper, who directed him to the first door on the left at the top of the stairs, he did not notice the small, wiry hooded figure watching him from one of the tables.

He did not take long to get to sleep. The bed was semi-comfy, and he'd slept in far worse conditions. Putting the Amulet of Kings on the table next to his bed, he lay back, thinking over the events of the day. A great deal had happened. He had escaped from the Imperial City Prison, met the Emperor of Tamriel, been given the most prized artefact in the Empire, beat down a rude fisherman and earned much gold in the Arena. He soon ceased his contemplation and drifted into a deep sleep.

He was awoken sometime later on, by the sound of his door closing. Immediately jerking upright after he recognised the source of the sound, he looked to his side to see the Amulet of Kings was gone. Jumping out of bed and grabbing his dagger and shortsword, clumsily shoving them into his belt, he raced through the door and into the hallway. He caught sight of a hooded figure, short and lean, turning around the corner and going downstairs. He followed.

In the main room of the Inn, he saw the wooden door that led to the Market District shutting. The Imperial innkeeper was lying over the counter, snoring. Alrukir opened the door and rushed out into the street, seeing the thief, their hood now down, walking away to his left. Evidently, they did not know he was following them.

He decided against calling for the guards. If he got the Watch involved, they would most certainly find out about the Amulet of Kings. He could possibly be blamed for the Emperor's murder.

He had no idea what time it was, but the streets were nearly empty, only inhabited by a few beggars and guards standing on patrol, their plate armour gleaming against the moonlight. Following the mystery thief around a corner, he saw that they were wearing tight leather armour, which hugged their rounded curves. It was a woman. Her hair looked to be a shade of light brown, though he couldn't see clearly in the darkness. It flowed back against her shoulders, and her ears were pointed. From that, and her short stature, he deduced that she was a Wood Elf.

He followed her for about half an hour through the streets of the Imperial City, passing by the White-Gold Tower and some kind of massive temple, until he found himself in some kind of shanty town by the lake. Rows of poorly built wooden shacks lined the edge of the water, and there were more beggars here than Alrukir had seen all day.

The elf eventually turned to enter one of the shacks, locking the door behind her. Cursing, Alrukir approached the door. He heard voices from somewhere, realising they were coming from behind the shack. Going down the side, he discovered it was blocked off by a stone wall. He eavesdropped, now hearing the voices clearer. First, he heard a deep, male voice.

"Welcome, welcome. I trust you're all here for one reason: you want to join the Thieves' Guild. But not just anyone can get in. You have to prove your worth to the Grey Fox."

He climbed the wall steadily and slowly, peeking over the top, just so that he could see over without being noticed. He was looking into a small backyard, where a group of people were holding some kind of meeting. The source of the voice was a Redguard wearing leather armour and holding a torch, his hair slicked back with some kind of oil. There were three other people, whose faces were lit up by the Redguard's torch. One was the Bosmer who stole the amulet from him. Now that he could see her face, she was young and pretty, with large, hazel eyes, pale skin and full lips. The others were a red-skinned Argonian and a young Dark Elf woman in rags. The Bosmer stepped forward, earning the surprised glances of the others.

"I already have proved my worth, Armand." Her voice was soft and feminine. She reached into her pocked as the others watched her curiously. They gasped as she pulled out the Amulet of Kings.

"Is that- the Amulet of Kings?!" asked the Redguard, astonished. "Let me see it." The Bosmer handed it to him warily. He held it up in the moonlight, examining it. "Not a forgery. It's the real deal." Handing it back, he stared at her in disbelief. "How did you get this?"

"I stole it from Emperor Uriel Septim himself." the girl replied, a cocky smile appearing on her face. "Picked it out of his pocket after sneaking into an Elder Council meeting."

"Lies." Before she could go any further, Alrukir had vaulted over the edge of the wall, landing on his feet. The thieves looked at him, surprised. The Dunmer girl flinched. "You didn't take it off the Emperor you lying bitch, I know because he gave it to me before he died. I'll be taking it back now, before I gut you all." He drew his shortsword, and advanced on the Bosmer menacingly.

"Walk away, friend." said the other Redguard, Armand, drawing a steel mace. "We're thieves. We don't just give our hard earned spoils back. We're not murderers, but if you threaten us, we'll be forced to take action."

Alrukir gave a guttural laugh. "I'm going to bleed you like a stuck pig, how's that for a threat?"

Armand gave a stern glance to the other thieves, and looked back at the sellsword, hefting his mace. "So be it." He charged, swinging his mace for Alrukir's skull. The sellsword parried the blow and delivered a kick to the thief's ribs, sending him reeling back.

The Argonian and the Dunmer advanced on him wielding a rusted longsword and a dagger respectively. He grabbed the woman as she lunged at him and threw her into the lizard, sending them both toppling over. He turned back just in time to see the Redguard coming at him again. Ducking under his horizontal swing, he delivered a deep slash across his stomach, causing him to cough up blood. The Argonian jumped onto his back, pulling his arms behind him as Armand prepared to swing again. Alrukir let himself fall backwards against the ground, hearing the lizard roar in pain beneath him as a few of his ribs cracked from the force. He kicked Armand in the shin, causing him to topple over. He then thrust his shortsword behind him, into the lizard's throat, hearing him choke up blood.

The Dunmer girl kicked him in the side, knocking him off the Argonian's corpse. As she came for him, he swung his sword in an arc, hacking through her ankle to the bone, nearly chopping her foot straight off. She screamed in pain and fell to the floor, clutching her loose ankle.

Armand jumped on him, blood dribbling down his chin, fury in his dark eyes. He swung a dagger down at the sellsword's throat with both hands. Alrukir caught it and pushed back with all the force he had. He pushed the thief's arms up far enough so he could headbutt him. He heard Armand's nose crack as the thief roared in pain, blood spewing from his wreck of a face. Alrukir wrenched the dagger from his hands and slashed it across his neck.

Pushing Armand's body off him, he stood up, swearing under his breath after he realised the Wood Elf girl had slipped away with the amulet. After ending the Dunmer's agony by shoving his sword through her heart, he ran through the shack and out into the street to see the Bosmer girl lying in a heap next to him a figure wearing full steel plate armour, a steel longword in one hand and a shield in the other, standing over her. He feared it was a guard, but as he approached, the figure removed his helmet, and he recognised the handsome face of Sir Titus, the knight from earlier.

"What are you doing here?" Alrukir spat. He saw that the knight's plate armour bore the sigil of his family, a golden sword being carried by an eagle.

"I saw you back in the Merchant's Inn, running after someone." replied Titus. "Wondered what all the commotion was, so I put on my armour and followed you. I presume you were after this dreg?" he motioned at the little elf.

Without replying, Alrukir grabbed the girl by the throat, pulled her up and thrust her against the wall, hard, using his other hand to point his dagger at her throat. "Give me it." he hissed. The girl pulled the Amulet of Kings out of her pocked and held it out. Alrukir snatched it quickly and shoved it in his own pocket. Apparently the millisecond was long enough for Titus to catch sight of the amulet.

"Was that the Amulet of Kings?" he asked, his voice a mixture of confusion and suspicion. "What are you doing with it? Are you involved with our Emperor's murder?" He raised his longsword menacingly, glaring at the Redguard, the friendly expression he wore in the Bloodworks replaced by one of accusation and mistrust.

"Not so loud." he whispered to the knight. He had to decide what to do. They both knew he had the amulet, so they were both threats. Perhaps his safest bet would be to kill them both now and dump their bodies in the lake.

"Sir Titus!" A voice rang out in the distance. Alrukir turned while the knight eyed him suspiciously to see a group of heavily armoured guards running towards them, led by a bald man in shiny white and gold armour, the source of the voice. He swore under his breath. The fool had told the guards about the robbery. "Is… everything… alright?" the bald man asked as they approached, clearly out of breath from running.

As Titus Goldvale opened his mouth to speak, Alrukir quickly talked over him. "Everything is fine, Sir. This elf stole a pouch of septims from me, but me and this fine knight worked together to catch her." He grabbed her by the shoulder. "Not a word, or I gut you." he whispered into her ear, proceeding to thrust her towards the guards. "Put her where she belongs."

"Typical" the head guard sighed as his men apprehended the Bosmer. "You'll want to stay clear of this area, m'lord, nothing but thieves, beggars and troublemakers in the Waterfront." He turned to the girl. "C'mon, you."

As the guards hauled the thief away, Sir Titus turned back to Alrukir. "You have some explaining to do, Redguard."

The knight seemed trustworthy enough. After all, if he was going to tell the guards, he would have done so then. Perhaps he could convince the fool to understand his predicament. "We need to go somewhere private." he muttered after the guards were well out of earshot. "No one else must know about this."


	6. Odds and Ends

"Hurry up, pretty Elf girl. My night duty's nearly over and I won't have you wasting what little free time I have."

As the guards led her across the bridge that connected the Market District and the prison, Methredhel silently cursed herself. She had successfully stolen the Amulet of Kings, the most treasured artefact in the entire Empire, that could have made her a rich woman, and she had botched this golden opportunity by being careless. How could she not have known the Redguard had been following her? When she picked his door and crept into his room, he was snoring louder than a grizzly bear. She must have closed the door slightly too hard when she left. If not for that one fatal error, she would have been praised as one of the greatest thieves in history, maybe even met the Grey Fox himself. They could have ruled the Thieves' Guild side-by-side, like King and Queen. However, it was pointless regretting her mistakes now. What was done was done.

As they forced her along, the guard behind occasionally jabbing her with the hilt of his sword, she glanced to her side, viewing the landscape of Cyrodiil over the bridge, the moonlight lighting up the lake. It was a beautiful sight. Where she was going, she would not see a sight like this for a while, or ever again, if the rumours about the Imperial City's prison were true.

No. She would not die in some dark rathole of a dungeon. She was a Bosmer and a thief, born to be free. She would get out of this mess, then get the Amulet of Kings back. She would be the greatest thief in history. It was about a hundred feet to the ground below, but she had to try something.

About two thirds of the way along the bridge, she pretended to stumble, dropping to one knee on the ground and letting out a groan of pain. The bald guard in white-gold armour let out a frustrated grunt. "What are you playing at, girl?" he spat. "You think you're the only one who's tried this? You're not fooling anyone." She stayed on the ground, still moaning in apparent pain and clutching her knee. "Get her up." he commanded, tired of waiting. The man closest to her stepped forward, reaching down to grab her. He was certainly not expecting the Bosmer to kick upwards and slam her foot into his unarmoured groin. He screamed in agony, and this time it was genuine.

As the guard fell to the floor clutching his groin, Methredhel leapt to her feet and charged, full pelt, for the edge of the bridge. "Get her!" yelled the bald captain. He and his two other underlings went after her, leaving their colleague lying on the ground. They were too late. She vaulted over the edge of the bridge, falling into the darkness below.

As the captain looked over the edge, a smug grin emerged on his face. "Another one who would rather die than go in the prison. Don't blame her, to be honest." He straightened, sheathing his mace. "Ah well, less paperwork for me."

"Is she dead?" asked another guard, still staring over the edge. "I can't see for the darkness."

"Of course she is, you idiot." replied the captain. "No one can survive a fall like that."

"These footpads have all kinds of tricks up their sleeves. We should look for the body at least."

"If you want to go down there and scrape up what's left of her then be my guest, but I'm going to bed."

The concerned guard was about to protest, but decided against it, and followed the rest away, reluctantly dismissing any possibility of the Wood Elf's survival.

Underneath the bridge, Methredhel smirked as she clung onto the weak stone with a grappling hook. She was free once again. Now she would find that Redguard and take the Amulet of Kings. But she would be more careful about it this time.

* * *

><p>Alrukir awoke, the morning light blaring through the window of his room. It was the best sleep he had gotten in a while. After explaining his situation to Sir Titus Goldvale last night, the Imperial had first regarded him with suspicion, then decided that the story sounded too crazy to be made up. As a result, the sellsword had held back on killing him… for now.<p>

The knight had offered Alrukir his sword for the journey, claiming that he was heading towards Anvil anyway, and Chorrol wouldn't be a huge detour. The sellsword knew his true purpose, however. The noble knight didn't trust a dirty cutthroat like him with a fancy trinket like the Amulet of Kings. Regardless, Alrukir declined him. Recent experience had made him wary of working with people and he didn't need anyone's help, especially not a pampered boy wearing the finest steel plate armour his daddy could buy him.

That morning he did some shopping in the Market District. He bought some light leather armour reinforced by chainmail from a shop called 'The Best Defense'. It was run by the rivals Maro and Varnado, who sold light and heavy armour respectively. As expected, dealing with Maro earned him spiteful glances from the Redguard Varnado. Annoyingly, he could not wear his new armour in the Arena, as rules dictated that only the Arena's battle raiments were allowed. He also bought a fine steel longsword from 'A Fighting Chance'. This he _could _use in the Arena. Unfortunately, he could not find anywhere that sold scimitars, but this was better than the rusted shit they provided at the Arena and the butter knife he had been using up until now. Longer reach, manoeuvrable and surprisingly light. He sold the old sword, getting 20 septims for it. About 20 less than it was worth, but it was the best he could do.

After buying what he needed, he headed towards the Arena wearing his new armour, longsword in hilt and dagger shoved in his belt. As he entered the Bloodworks, he caught sight of Sir Titus, who gave him a quick nod and approached him. "Have you given my offer any second thoughts?" asked the knight, who was wearing his blue battle raiment again. "Chorrol may not be too far off, but the roads are dangerous these days. The highwaymen grow bolder after our dear Emperor's death. Also…" A look of concern appeared on his face. "…I was speaking to a merchant yesterday, came from Kvatch way, who told me there's been sightings of… _Daedra."_

Alrukir's mind flashed back to Uriel Septim's death, and his last words. '_Close shut the jaws of Oblivion._' He forced it out of his mind. Daedra had always been in Tamriel, perhaps their appearance was the work of some conjurers taking advantage of the chaotic state of the Empire. "Killed plenty of Daedra before." he replied, unconcerned. "I've been a sellsword for seventeen years, fought Orc berserkers in the Wrothgarians, vampires, necromancers, barbarians in Skyrim. I can handle a few Daedra and bandits on my own." He left the knight standing there.

"There you are." said Owyn unenthusiastically as the sellsword approached. "Thought you were never coming back. Nice armour. Is it new?"

"Just bought it this morning." replied Alrukir, somewhat proudly.

"That's nice. Now take it the fuck off and get your bony arse into a battle raiment!" He continued talking as the sellsword changed. "I got a match for you. Now before you get all cocky, you should know there's two of 'em this time. The 'Wood Elf Sisters', they call 'em."

Alrukir was unconcerned. He had fought more than two opponents at once before, one example being just last night. "So you want me to paint the arena with their blood, then you'll give me my gold?"

The Blademaster nearly smiled. "You know me too well. Now get up there."

In the arena, the pompous announcer spat out his usual dribble about glory and blood. Alrukir didn't bother to listen to him anymore, instead concentrating on the coming fight. He saw two figures in yellow raiments emerge behind the gate on the other side. On the announcer's word, the gates slid open and the crowds roared for blood as the opponents advanced on each other.

One of the Wood Elves stayed back while the other charged full pelt at Alrukir. He saw the one dwindling behind had a bow. He immediately leapt for cover behind a pillar as the other approached. As they got closer, he saw the elf girl was wearing a heavy raiment and wielding a claymore of Dwemer make. The sight of the tiny elf with a massive sword was almost comical. She appeared to be slightly leaning to her side due to the sword's weight. He would have found it funny if she wasn't trying to kill him.

She snarled as she brought the claymore down in an attempt to hack through his shoulder. He easily dodged the clumsy swing and slammed his sword hilt between her shoulder blades, sending the elf stumbling forward, though her armour absorbed most of the blow. She turned around, growling, and charged at the Redguard, this time swinging horizontally. Alrukir dodged every swipe by backstepping. He twisted to dodge an arrow flying for him, which just grazed the front of his armour. Seeing the archer advancing on him, he backed up behind another pillar, the claymore wielding elf coming after him, trying to sound as ferocious as possible.

As she approached, Alrukir kicked sand into her eyes. The blinded elf screamed as her eyes stung from the sand. She flailed about madly, swinging her sword in every direction. Seeing the archer taking aim on the other side of the pillar, Alrukir went around it until her was out of her sight, taking care to avoid the enraged enemy near him. As her sword hit the pillar and bounced off, the force stunning her for a second, he acted. He kicked her, slamming his foot into the back of her leg, sending her toppling to the ground. He then quickly thrust his sword through the back of her exposed neck.

Picking up the elf's body and holding it in front of him as a shield, he emerged from behind the pillar and advanced on the archer. She wailed in grief after seeing her sister's body, her hands shaking as she tried to get a shot on the Redguard. As he approached, he saw she had no other weapon than her bow. '_What a fool_' he thought. She had completely relied on her sister's melee skill, and now she was dead. Her lack of preparation would be her downfall. Unwilling to fire at her sister's body, even if she was dead, she dared not move her hand from her bow.

As he got closer, Alrukir threw the body at her, knocking her over. Before she could move, he kicked her in the ribs, then again in the cheek. As she spat out fresh blood, he grabbed her by the hair, pulled her up and sliced her throat open.

Back in the Bloodworks, Owyn tossed him the standard bag of 100 septims. He was nearly there. One more match and he'd have enough for the rest of his supplies.

"Nice work with those elves." said Owyn. Alrukir was surprised at the compliment. He got the impression the Blasemaster was developing a grudging respect for him. "You showed them who's boss. Ready for another?"

"Of course." Alrukir replied.

"That's what I like to hear. One more match and you'll advance to Bloodletter rank. That's further than most people get." Alrukir really couldn't care less about his rank in the Arena, as he was just here for some quick money. He refrained from pointing it out, though, to avoid upsetting the Blademaster. "This next one's a Khajiit. Not one of the usual quick, jumpy ones either. He wears a heavy raiment and carries a big fucking axe. With what I've seen from you so far, though, you shouldn't have much trouble turning him into a fur coat. Now go get 'em."

The Blademaster wasn't lying. As Alrukir stepped out onto the sands of the Arena, he looked across at the Khajiit charging towards him. He was bigger than the average Khajiit and wore heavy armour with a chainmail helmet. He lugged a huge silver battleaxe around, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. The cat's yellow eyes gleamed with fury, glaring at the Redguard from behind his dirty orange fur. "Die, human scum!" he hissed as he approached. He hurtled forward, surprisingly quick for his size, and swung his axe diagonally for the sellsword's chest. Alrukir jumped back to dodge the blow. He then swung his sword for the khajiit' arm, which was exposed by the raiment. A foolish idea for armour, really. If the arm was slashed deep enough, it could lead to unstoppable bleeding. However, the cat blocked the swing with the handle of his axe and growled.

Alrukir used this distraction to land a kick into his shin, causing him to stumble on one knee. He then swung down at the Khajiit, who rolled out of the way and quickly pulled himself to his feet. He was nimble for one wearing heavy armour. As he pulled himself up, Alrukir noticed he was slightly taller than him. The cat then swung the axe at his ribs while snarling with fury. In response, Alrukir twisted to dodge the blade, then slammed his sword hilt into the cat's arm, after which he heard a violent crack. The Khajiit roared in pain, using one hand to swing the axe for the sellsword's neck, the broken arm supporting it. He jumped back again to avoid it.

He was usually too focused on the fight to notice the crowd's roaring, but he noticed it now. It reminded him of his days on the streets of Sentinel as a teenager, participating in street fights, with crowds of people watching him. That was before he even became a sellsword.

The khajiit put all his strength into a mighty throw. Alrukir jumped to the side to avoid the axe. It span past him and landed on the sand far behind him. Usually, he would think throwing your weapon a fool move, but this was a Khajiit, and he knew was he was planning.

The cat charged at him, swiping with his claws. After he dodged the first few swings, the Khajiit jumped on him, knocking him over. Landing on top of him, his opponent slashed with all his strength at his face, lying on top of Alrukir's arms. He did the only thing he could do, bite deep into the cat's hand. A few of his claws stuck deep into the sellsword's cheek, but as the Khajiit screamed in pain, he managed to wrench an arm free from under him. He pulled his dagger out of his belt and jammed it into the khajiit's other arm. As his opponent was distracted by the pain, he managed to push him off.

Spitting out blood from the wound in his mouth, Alrukir kicked the dagger further into the Khajiit's arm. He picked up his sword from the ground, but the cat had already stood and pulled the dagger out. He charged at him again, but this time Alrukir kicked his legs, and as the cat fell towards him, impaled him through the mouth. His longsword went all the way through his mouth and out through the back of his head.

He withdrew his sword from his dead opponent and wiped it clean on the Khajiit's raiment before turning and leaving to the cheers of the crowd. It would be the last time he would see these sands, and for that he was glad.

Alrukir healed his wound in the Basin of Renewal, a magical fountain in the Bloodworks. After he took his hundred septims from Owyn, he tossed him his raiment and turned to leave. He finally had what he came here for. However the Blademaster put a hand on his shoulder before he walked away.

"Hey, where d'you think you're going?" he asked. "You're a Bloodletter now, and that's further than most get here. The way you're going, you could get real far here."

Alrukir replied in his usual uncaring tone. "I came here for septims. Now I have them." He jingled his pouch of gold in front of the Blademaster. "I never planned on staying."

Even though the Blademaster usually hid his emotions behind a prickly exterior, he could not hide the disappointment in his eyes. "Heh, didn't take you for a quitter." The sellsword didn't bother to reply, instead heading for the stairs. "You'll be back, Bloodletter!" Owyn called after him.

As he exited into the Arena District, the late afternoon sun shone in the horizon. Approaching the Market District, the sellsword did not notice Methredhel watching him from the bushes. She had found her target once again. _'I will stalk him until the time is right._' she thought, ducking slightly to avoid the gaze of a passing guardsman. '_Then I will take the Amulet of Kings and become rich and famous. I will be the Queen of Thieves._'.

After stocking up on some final supplies, including various potions, a bow and a few hundred arrows, Alrukir found the Chestnut Handy Stables on the west side of the city, just outside the gate. He approached an Orc woman who was tending to one of the horses, a tall black stallion. He cleared his throat, catching her attention. She turned her ugly, pig-like face towards him, her yellow eyes fixated on the Redguard. "Yeah?" she spat.

Ignoring the Orc's rude tone, he explained his business. "I'm looking for a horse that can take me from here to Chorrol. I have plenty of septims." He jingled his purse in front of her.

She glanced at the purse nonchalantly before grunting and turning back to her work. "What kind of horse do you want?" she grunted, without looking at him.

"Preferably the fastest and strongest one you've got. What about this one?" He motioned at the black horse.

"Two thousand septims." she replied, her voice lacking any hint of concern.

Alrukir, needless to say, was taken aback. "Two thousand fucking septims? That's ridiculous! Did this horse belong to the fucking Emperor or something?" While he had made a great deal of money fighting in the arena, he had nowhere near enough to pay for this horse.

"Two thousand." she repeated. "Take it or leave it, Redguard. I don't have time to barter with you."

He would have cut her throat and taken the horse, but there were guards standing right by the gate, and there was a barracks nearby. He didn't want to become a wanted criminal this soon after escaping from jail. "Got any others?" he asked, trying his best to suppress his growing anger.

The Orc stopped her work and turned to look at him again. She sighed and beckoned to him. "Follow me."

Going behind the stables, there were several more horses, most of them strong, healthy looking mares. "What about this one?" asked Alrukir, approaching a brown and white one.

The woman rubbed her chin. "One thousand five-hundred septims."

He pointed at a slightly smaller black one by the fence. "That one?"

"One thousand four-hundred."

"You can't be serious." he spat, finally losing it. "All I have is a hundred and fifty fucking drakes!"

"A hundred and fifty?" she echoed, rubbing her chin again, her eyes widening. "I may have just the horse for you. Follow me."

Sighing, Alrukir did as she asked. They went back to the front, where she opened a door in the stable. Inside was possibly the most pathetic horse he had ever seen. About half the size of the other ones, it was skinny and malnourished, with its bony ribs poking out of its side. Its black eyes were swollen and bulging out of their sockets, its grey fur darkened with dirt and its mane a tangled mess. "A hundred and fifty." The Orc announced, stretching out her hand.

Alrukir fought back his urge to lop her arm off while he considered. He would be a laughing stock on this skeletal pony, but it was better than nothing. "Fine." he spat, tossing her his remaining gold. "I hope you choke on it."

After riding over a bridge across Lake Rumare, he found himself in a small hamlet, where he was subject to jeers and ridicule by onlookers, no doubt amused at the sight of the grizzled Redguard riding the tiny skin-and-bones horse.

"Now, that's a fine horse, friend!" called a middle aged man standing outside a tavern with a group of his friends, smirks of mockery planted on their faces. "A real stallion you have there!" His friends burst into guffaws of laughter. Alrukir ignored them, doing his best to hide his frustration and keeping his gaze forward.

"You cruel bastard!" hissed a young woman further down the road. "You haven't fed that poor thing for weeks, have you?" He didn't bother informing her that he bought the horse like this, as he didn't feel like talking to anyone right now.

He soon left the hamlet and took the Northwestern road towards Chorrol. The horse was not very fast at all. He sometimes managed to kick it into a gallop, but it would only go on for a few yards, after which it would slow down almost to a stop, heavily panting. Every so often it would make a disgusting guttural sound, as if it was choking up mucus, or something else.

He was passing by a run-down fort when he noticed a group of people ahead. He put his hand on his sword hilt, cautious. The knight had mentioned an increase of banditry on the roads. A man who looked to be their leader approached him and took his horse by the reins, while the rest followed slowly. He was an average-sized Nord, with long, brown hair, covered in dirt and scars and wearing some kind of animal furs. He looked savage.

"What the fuck is that thing?" the Nord spat, eyeing his abnormal horse up and down.

"Isn't he a beauty?" replied Alrukir, sarcastically. "Best horse I could afford. Now, what do you want?"

"There's a toll on this here road." growled the ragged Nord. "A hundred drakes to pass. Now, pay up."

"You don't look like a toll collector." said Alrukir, unfazed by the highwayman's attempts to intimidate him. "You look like a shitstained Nord who's searching for some easy pickings."

At this, the highwayman glanced back at his friends, of which there were about five or six, who started reaching for their weapons. He then turned back to the sellsword. "I'll ask you again. One. Hundred. Septims. Give 'em here or we'll take 'em from your bloodied corpse."

He looked into the Nord's green eyes a few seconds before chuckling menacingly. "Even if I had a hundred drakes, I wouldn't give them to you. Now, do me a favour and get your grubby fucking hand off my horse before I lop it off."

The Nord returned his gaze for a few seconds before hastily reaching for an axe at his belt. Before he could even touch it, however, Alrukir had thrust his steel longsword through his neck. The other bandits drew their weapons and charged as their dead comrade dropped the ground.

Alrukir rode his horse directly through the middle of the group, ducking to avoid a few arrows coming at him, and knocked a few of them into the dirt. He turned around and parried a sword swing from an Imperial in leather armour, before slicing his neck open. A third bandit, a spear wielding Khajiit charged at his horse, which reared and kicked the cat straight in the face, sending him flying into the dirt. An Orc in Iron plate armour approached and swung a warhammer towards his chest. He managed to barely dodge the swing, but it caused him to fall off his horse, landing on his back.

He rolled onto his chest and pushed himself up just in to see the Orc coming at him again. Before he could react, his horse charged away in a panic, knocking the green warrior flat on his back. a Couple of archers readied their bows a few feet away. He grabbed the body of the Imperial and used it as a shield, advancing on them and blocking the two arrows that came for him. He threw the body down and charged for the archers before they could nock new arrows. He plunged his sword into the belly of a surprised Nord, then jumped back as the Breton archer pulled out a dagger and swung for him. He caught his dagger hand and pushed it back, proceeding to shove his sword through the Breton's heart.

He turned around just in time to see the spear-wielding Khajiit coming for him, whose face was now heavily bloodied from the horse's kick, his nose apparently broken. He was followed from behind by the Orc, who had managed to pull himself up. They advanced on him in a semi-circular formation. He caught the cat's spear thrust and pulled the spear towards him before kicking him in his exposed ribcage. He tore the spear from his hands and pushed the cat into the Orc, after which both of them stumbled. He then thrust the spear through the Khajiit's abdomen, attempting to drive it through him and into the Orc. It would not penetrate his armour, however. The Orc roared and pushed the Khajiit to the ground, where he clutched the spear sticking through him, moaning in agony. The Orc swung his hammer for Alrukir wildly and without skill. The sellsword easily dodged every swing.

Suddenly, they both heard the galloping of hooves. Alrukir turned slightly, still not losing focus on his enemy, to see a large white steed hurtling towards them, its rider clad fully in armour. Before the enraged Orc could react, the mysterious rider had sliced his head clean off his shoulders, after which it dropped to the floor and rolled away, followed by his body.

After pulling out his dagger and slicing the mortally wounded Khajiit's throat, Alrukir looked up to see the rider approaching. A steel full helmet covered his face, but he recognised the sigil of Goldvale. From that, he fully expected to see the familiar face of Sir Titus even before the rider removed his helmet.

The knight jumped off his horse, sheathing his glistening longsword. "I arrived just in time, it seems." he announced in his usual pompous tone. "That Orc looked fearsome. He may have caved your head in by now, had I not lopped his ugly head off."

The Redguard tried his best to ignore the sheer arrogance of the young Imperial, but failed miserably. "Get your head out of your arse, _knight_." He spat the last word with venom. "I was doing just fine without you. I had killed most of them by myself before you came along." He sheathed his sword after checking the area was clear. Looking back at the knight, he saw in his eyes that he was taken aback by his comment. '_By the gods, this idiot genuinely thinks he saved my life!'_

"I am sorry if I offended you." said Titus, scratching his chin. "I was just trying to help."

"What are you doing here anyway? Have you been following me?"

"What? No! I- uh….." The knight stammered nervously. "….yes, I've been following you." he admitted. "I know you made your point clear, but I just thought you could use an extra sword on such an… important quest. And since I'm more or less headed the same way…"

"Don't beat around the bush, sir knight! You don't trust a filthy, lowborn cutthroat with the Amulet of Kings, is that it?"

Anger flared in the Imperial's eyes. "N- no! Of course not! Stop jumping to accusations, Redguard!"

Alrukir decided it was useless to argue with this fool. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to let him come along. He seemed an above average fighter, from what he had seen of him in the arena and just now. He could always kill him if he got too annoying, anyway.

"Fine. You can come. But I warn you, touch the amulet and even that pretty armour won't stop me shoving my sword up your noble arsecrack." The knight nodded, cringing at the mental picture of what the mercenary had just described. "Now, help me loot these bodies."

"Most of their possessions were likely stolen from innocent travellers." Sir Titus announced. "We should deliver them to the authorities, so they can be returned to their rightful owners- if they're still alive."

Alrukir crouched over the Nord leader's body, discovering a few pouches of septims and some healing potions. "Well, the nearest authorities are over there." He pointed towards the Imperial City, far in the distance. "Haul this stuff back there if you want, then you can catch up to me later." The mocking sarcasm was evident in his tone.

The knight sighed. "Fine, I suppose we could use a few more provisions."

They stopped their looting and looked up when they heard the sound of hooves, lighter than the ones of Titus' steed. Alrukir grimaced at the familiar sight of his cheap horse, puffing and panting as it drew near.

"What in Oblivion is that thing?" asked Titus, gaping at the runt of a horse.

"My horse." replied Alrukir, his tone one of mocking pride. "It ran away when I was fighting those damned highwaymen. I was hoping it left for good." Of course, he was partly joking. He still needed a horse, even if it was one that had to catch its breath every ten seconds.

The knight decided not to bother asking any more questions, instead returning to his looting. It was a long way to Chorrol, and if he questioned everything, it would be even longer.


	7. Conspiracies

"I'm telling you, it was him. He was right there in the Feed Bag."

If the Breton was concerned by this announcement, his face certainly did not show it. His colourless lips remained perfectly rigid, his cold blue eyes fixated on the view outside the window, the vibrant landscape of Cyrodiil stretched across the horizon.

"So, old Al has somehow wriggled free." His voice was a soft, but guttural growl. "I expect he'll want revenge once he finds out I betrayed him."

The wiry, lean Dark Elf continued, his ruby eyes very apparent in the dimly lit room. "So? Just send someone to deal with him."

"It's not as simple as that." The Breton turned away from the window and towards his two men. He was not a large man by any means, being shorter than both of his acquaintances, but even the greatest of fools could easily tell that he was in charge. His grizzled features, including the deep scars that ran all across his pale, ghostlike face, made it clear he had seen a lot of battle. He was not a good-looking man by any means, his nose large and crooked. His long, dark brown hair was thick with dirt and ran across his head in an untidy mess. He wore leather armour, reinforced by chainmail, a dark, tattered cloak draped around his shoulders and running to the floor. "I know him. I've seen him fight. He'll kill anyone we send to him."

The third man in the room, a giant Nord who almost reached the ceiling, let out a chorus of booming laughter that rang across the fortress. The elf flinched at the outburst, but the Breton didn't move, his eyes staying focused. If he was deep in thought, the Nord obviously hadn't broken his concentration. "Leave the scrawny twat to me!" the huge man rumbled. Just from his obnoxiously loud voice, you could tell he was incapable of speaking quietly. "I don't care how good he is. Nothing has ever stood against me axe!"

The Breton, however, was clearly not fazed by his companion's bravado. "A weapon is useless if it can't find its target." he growled, his face devoid of any emotion. "He's quick, agile and good with a blade. You're a big, slow, lumbering barbarian." He ignored the flash of anger that appeared on the Nord's face. The huge man did not make any protest, for he knew that even he would meet his match against the grizzled mercenary before him. The Breton continued. "There's only a handful of people in Tamriel who could match that Redguard blade-to-blade. I'm one of them, but problem is, I don't know where the fuck he is, since you idiots didn't bother to track him. I should lop your stinking shitstained heads off right now, but I'm short on men as it is." His voice didn't show the vaguest hint of anger as he said this. He paused for a few moments, contemplating his options. "Vaaz, bring me that scribe we have downstairs. I'm going to send off a letter to that idiot Zurakh. He'll be wondering what happened out here."

As the Dunmer scurried off to fetch the scribe, the Nord glanced at his master inquisitively. "What you planning?" he grunted curiously.

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough." replied the Breton. A few moments later, the Dark Elf Vaaz returned, an aged Imperial man dressed in blue robes following him. "Get him a quill and some parchment."

As Vaaz fetched the items, the Imperial sat at a desk. The grizzled Breton approached him. "Write down everything I say." he growled. "Word for word"

* * *

><p>"It may hinder your speed, but…"<p>

"No!" the Redguard interrupted. "There's no 'but''s in that. Speed is one of the most important things in a fight!"

"let me finish damn it!" the Knight spat. "It may hinder your speed, but the protection heavy armour grants you is invaluable."

They had been arguing over this for around twenty minutes now. Alrukir and Sir Titus Goldvale sat on their horses on the road to Weynon Priory, bickering over the effectiveness of heavy versus light armour.

"Protection? Ha!" Alrukir chuckled. He had to crane his neck to look up at the Knight, who was on a great white steed, from his tiny runt of a horse. "No metal plate is going to protect you against a big fucking warhammer smashing into the side of your head. Whether you're wearing heavy armour or not, your head's going to explode like a damned watermelon."

"Did I say that protection was the only thing that matters?" hissed Titus. "Obviously you can't just stand there and let them hit you, even if you're wearing plate armour. But every little bit helps."

"Heavy armour isn't worth it. The difference in protection is minimal at best. See this chainmail and leather I'm wearing? It'll protect against a light sword blow. But nothing is impenetrable. Light armour protects and doesn't hinder speed."

"Heavy armour doesn't hinder you much if you know how to use it!"

"Well then, you clearly don't know how to use it. I've seen you fight. I could run to one end of the arena and back in the time it takes you to swing that fucking sword."

"You're exaggerating! I'm not that slow!" It was clear the knight was beginning to get frustrated. "Huh? What's this place?" He pointed ahead, to an old, run down fort that blocked their path.

"Looks like the ruins of some Imperial fort." muttered Alrukir.

"Perhaps there's somewhere to sleep inside."

They had been so involved in their argument that they had not noticed nightfall approaching over their heads. They had slept rough the last few nights. While Alrukir was no stranger to discomfort, the spoiled knight was used to fancy, king-sized beds and had wasted no time complaining. When Alrukir had questioned the dimwit as to why he hadn't brought any bedrolls, the knight reluctantly admitted he had forgotten.

"First we have to see who or what's inside." he said. "When you come across abandoned forts like this, they're not likely to be empty."

Just moments after they rode past the crumbled walls of the fort, they heard snarls and grunts from above. Looking up, Alrukir saw a small, green figure wearing some kind of animal skull on its head descending the worn stone stairs. In its hand it brandished a primitive club. The sellsword had no reason to worry. To him, Goblins were about as dangerous as mice. More green figures followed the first down the stairs, roaring and snarling pathetically.

"Foul beasts!" roared Sir Titus. "Huzzah!" he drew his longsword from its scabbard with a great deal of ferocity, while Alrukir calmly hefted his blade, after which he vaulted from his horse. As the first one came at him, he landed a powerful kick into its face. Strolling over to the stunned Goblin, he shoved his blade through its heart, resulting in a pained yelp, followed by death.

The knight, meanwhile, was roaring ferociously, slicing the stomach of one goblin while driving an armoured fist into the next, shattering its skull. The Imperial was a skilled fighter, Alrukir had to give him that. However, he fought with a certain arrogance and pomposity that inevitably came with his knightly background. This would be his downfall if he went up against someone as skilled as he was.

Once the goblins were lying in crumpled, bloody heaps, the two warriors wiped their weapons clean and sheathed them.

"If there's goblins out here, there'll be more inside" grunted the sellsword. "They shouldn't be a problem for the two of us, though. Let's saddle the horses out here."

"If you can call that thing a horse." replied Titus mockingly.

"Don't speak ill of Runt." growled Alrukir, sarcasm evident in his tone.

"Runt?"

"That's what I've decided to name him. Shouldn't be too hard to figure out why."

The tiny horse was still panting heavily and spitting out huge globs of yellow mucus after the long ride. It had struggled to keep up with Titus' powerful steed, and the knight had to stop every so often to allow Alrukir to catch up. At this rate, there would be at least another day of riding until they reached Chorrol.

After saddling the horses, the unlikely duo entered the goblin infested ruins. The goblins, being generally pathetic creatures, fell with relative ease to the hardened warriors. There were about twenty of them within. After cleaning out the ruin and checking every corner in case they had left out any goblins, they found some bedrolls in one chamber. For dinner, they had some rat meat they found on a spit, likely being cooked by the goblins before they were beset upon by the intruders. They sat on some chairs in the room, chewing on their portions. Sir Titus had removed all his armour and was now wearing fine clothes you would expect of a Cyrodiilic noble, including some kind of leather jerkin. The juices from the rat meat flowed down his strong chin. His blue eyes flickered up at the Redguard.

"What's your story, sellsword?" he asked, breaking the half-hour long silence. "How did you come to Cyrodiil? I can tell from your accent you weren't born here."

"Why do you care, knight?" muttered Alrukir, not moving his eyes away from the food in his hands. His beard, now considerably thick, was drenched in the meat juices.

"Well, for one thing, I like to know about who I'm travelling with." the knight replied, rubbing juice from his chin with his sleeve. "For another, I'm curious."

Alrukir sighed, not bothering to swallow his food before talking. "Ain't much to tell, really. Was born and raised in Sentinel. Discovered my talent for killing at an early age. After that, I became a sellsword. Went around murdering people for rich twats who didn't like getting their hands dirty." He spat a small piece of bone on the floor, before taking another bite of rat and continuing. "That's why I came here. Got hired by some pompous merchant prince to kill one of his rivals, who was trotting through Cyrodiil. But one of my band betrayed me and he laid an ambush. Next thing I knew, I was in the Imperial City Prison."

"You don't know who?"

"Nope. They're all sellswords like me. Fight for the highest bidder. Any of them could've done it. Can't say I blame whoever it was. I would've done it too, given the chance."

"You would forsake your own comrades for gold?" the knight spat, evidently appalled at what he was hearing.

"Yes." replied the Redguard, nonchalant. "I understand you're a chivalrous knight and all, but in my line of work, things don't work that way. How do you think I've lived to this ripe old age? You don't survive long by being honourable. Maybe you'll learn that one day, sir knight."

"I bet there's nothing you wouldn't do for money, is there?" growled Titus, glaring at the cutthroat. "You'd put an infant to the sword for a few drakes, wouldn't you?" Alrukir's cold stare and emotionless expression gave the knight all the answer he needed.

"We'd best get some sleep." Alrukir announced after a few moments of stone cold silence, immediately putting the tense conversation behind them. "We have a long day ahead of us. About another day's riding at least from here to Chorrol."

At that, they crawled into their semi-comfortable bed sheets without a word. As Alrukir tried to get to sleep, though, thoughts of his betrayal in the Colovian Highlands ran through his mind. His betrayer may already have found out he was alive and kicking. Whoever it was, they would likely want him dead. He thought back to the giant Nord and the Dark Elf back in the Imperial City. He had enemies in this province, that was for sure. Who they were, though, he had no idea.

* * *

><p>Methredhel came upon the ruins as the morning sun peeked over the horizon. The goblin corpses and the saddled horses gave her all the clues she needed to know that her target was here. The Imperial and the Redguard had certainly left a lot of bodies in their wake. Nearer the Imperial City, she had found the rotting corpses of some outlaws, all valuables stripped from them. From this, and from the horse tracks, she knew they were heading down this road. Now she had finally found them. Perhaps they would be asleep, and she could take back her amulet.<p>

Entering the ruins, taking care not to make too much noise, she found more dead goblins. Creeping down the stairs and across a hallway, she heard snoring from a chamber. As she entered, she saw the Imperial and the Redguard, just as she remembered them, fast asleep. The snoring came from the Imperial, while the Redguard was a silent sleeper. She crept closer, quiet as a cat at night, her eyes scanning the room for her prize. She saw a glimmer of light under the Redguard's pillow. Doubtless, this would be it. What else would be so important as to hide under your pillow?

She edged forward, not making a sound, placing her leather soles against the stone ground ever so steadily. This was it. Her amulet was in her grasp. All she had to do was take it and leave without being noticed. She reached for it, her leather gloved hand outstretched, excitement filling her. The gold of the Empire's most treasured artefact was mere inches away from her fingers. She would be the greatest thief Tamriel had ever known.

But then he stirred. As the Redguard mumbled groggily, his eyes still closed, she quickly but silently darted out of the room, heading down the hallway, but staying just close enough so she could hear the voices of the men inside the room.

"Sir Knight! Wake up!" rasped someone in a vaguely recognisable foreign accent. She heard a harsh thud, like a foot slamming into a ribcage.

"Mmmmrrghhh…uuuhhhhh….huh? What is it?" replied another man in a deeper, Cyrodiilic tongue.

"I think it's morning. We have to get going."


	8. Honourless

They finally arrived at Weynon Priory in late evening. It was a quaint place, with just a house, a chapel and some stables, next to the city of Chorrol, which, while impressive, was nowhere near the grand scale of the Imperial City.

"Ah… Chorrol." said Titus as they rode past the city. "I Haven't been here in years. Wonder how the Guild's doing. I ought to pay Vilena a visit."

"You can reminisce later, Sir Knight." Alrukir reminded him. "We have an amulet to deliver."

They saddled their horses in the stables and approached the door of the house, where Alrukir assumed they would find this Jauffre person.

"Let me do the talking." hissed the sellsword as he rapped on the door. A few moments later, they heard footsteps and the door opened. Standing there was a young Imperial dressed in monk's robes.

"Yes? Can I help you?" he asked, eyeing the grime-covered travellers up and down. They must have looked a strange pair. The blue-eyed knight in his gallant, steel armour and the scrawny, ragged-looking Redguard with his scruffy beard.

"We're looking for someone called Jauffre." said Alrukir. "Does he live here?"

"Why yes, Brother Jauffre is upstairs right now. May I ask what you need of him?"

"No." growled Alrukir, earning an uncomfortable look from the young monk. "You may not."

After a moment's awkward silence, the monk nodded cautiously. "Very well. Please, come in."

They did so, and followed the monk up some stairs and into an office. Ornaments, trinkets and all manner of strange armour and weapons lined the shelves. Alrukir recognised some as the armour of the Blades. There were plenty of books as well, enough to last two lifetimes. At the end of the room, at a desk, sat an aged, balding monk. His pale complexion and pasty skin indicated he was a Breton. Despite his elderly appearance and wrinkles around his eyes, there was a certain strength to him. The hilt of an Akaviri Dai-Katana was just visible over his back. He looked up from some paperwork as the three approached him.

"Brother Jauffre." the younger monk addressed him, giving a slight nod of respect. "There are some travellers here who wish to speak with you. Their business seems rather… confidential."

"Thank you, Brother Piner." The elderly monk's voice was cultured, typical of a Breton. He did not seem to possess the usual arrogant tone of High Rock lordlings, however, plenty of which Alrukir had met before and all of them he had despised. There was wisdom to his voice. "You may leave us."

Giving another nod, the young monk turned and left the office, closing the door behind him. The elderly monk turned his attention to his two visitors.

"Greetings, I'm Brother Jauffre. We don't get many travellers here, but I'm happy to help you in whichever way I can. What do you need, friends?"

Without saying a word, Alrukir withdrew the Amulet of Kings from his pocket and approached the old man, carefully laying the artefact on his desk. Jauffre eyed it with awe, speechless for a few seconds. He finally began to muster some words.

"The… the Amulet of Kings?! What… where… how did you get this?"

"From our dear Emperor." muttered the Redguard, mockingly. Jauffre was not impressed, however. He seemed to forget his astonishment and glared up at the sellsword, accusation evident in his eyes. He rose from his seat with such speed and ferocity that Sir Titus flinched.

"You know something about his death? You'd better explain yourself, now!" he hissed, as if he was about to rip out his katana and engage the sellsword right there. Alrukir had no doubt he would be a competent fighter despite his age, having survived as leader of the Blades for so long, but the old man would still most likely fall against him.

Sir Titus clearly sensed the growing tension in the room. "Umm… I think what my friend here means to say is that-"

"I told you I would do the talking, Sir Knight." growled Alrukir, cutting him off. He began to tell Jauffre about everything that had happened since his imprisonment. The Emperor's prophecies, the red robed assassins, the last heir, the threat of Oblivion. Jauffre seemed to believe his story. He sad there, pondering, evidently much calmer now.

"I see." said the old man, his voice barely greater than a whisper. "You say you came all the way from the Imperial City? I suspect you'll both be famished after your long journey. Join me downstairs, and we can discuss this over a meal."

And so they went. Soon they were sitting at the table facing platters full of food. Fish, salad, bread, potatoes and a variety of cooked meats.

Alrukir swallowed a mouthful of roast pork before addressing Jauffre again. "So, was Uriel just a crazy old fart or was he speaking the truth?" asked the Redguard, nonchalant despite the seriousness of the situation. Jauffre, who was spreading some lard on a potato, seemed to revert to his agitated state.

"You speak of our Emperor! Show some damn respect!" he hissed, throwing his knife down with a clatter. However, remembering the current situation, he went back to his calm pondering while cutting the potato in half. "The 'Prince of Destruction' the Emperor mentioned is Mehrunes Dagon, one of the many Daedric Princes of Oblivion. But… 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion'?" He rubbed his chin. "Strange… most believe the Daedra can't touch the mortal realm. We're usually protected by magical barriers. Perhaps it has something to do with the dragonfires in the Temple of the One. With no Emperor, they will be dark for the first time in centuries. Perhaps they protected us from some threat only the Emperor was aware of."

"And who is this heir he told me about?" asked the sellsword, taking a large gulp of wine before spearing a big fat tomato on his fork, its juices splattering across the table.

"Ah, yes. I am one of the few who know about his existence. The Emperor gave him to me for protection when he was just a baby, back when I was captain of the Blades. Now it seems he is the heir to the throne… if he still lives, that is."

"The Emperor gave him to you to protect and you don't even know if he's still alive?" asked Alrukir.

"He's a grown man now, perfectly capable of looking after himself."

"I don't know… most royals don't seem to be capable of that." jested the Redguard. Titus, who was slicing himself some more beef, gave him a glare of disapproval.

"Your vain attempts at humour are not appreciated, Redguard." growled Jauffre. "This is a serious situation. The lad's name is Martin and he lives as a priest in the city of Kvatch. You should find him in the Chapel of Akatosh there. I-"

The sellsword interrupted him with a gleeful chuckle. "I'm not doing anything for you. My business here is concluded. I delivered the amulet, as the Emperor asked. You should be thankful I'm not demanding a big fat reward."

"Are you completely without honour?" spat Sir Titus, almost choking on beef in anger. It was the first time he had spoken in a while.

"The Emperor said you were part of his prophecy." said Jauffre, still calm, swilling wine around in his golden, ruby-encrusted goblet. "If he was right, perhaps only you can save the world."

"Sorry, I've done enough charity work already. My part in all this is done." The sellsword finished off the last of his wine and stood up, turning to leave "Thanks for the meal, the pork was to _die _for." Jauffre and Sir Titus stood up to follow him.

"You may be the only one who can stop all this madness!" hissed the knight, as he followed Alrukir to the door they entered the house from, Jauffre close behind.

"Bullshit." replied the Redguard, not even bothering to look back as he reached for the door. "There's plenty of people. If you care so much, why don't you do it? You're a chivalrous knight are you not? Here's your chance to gain some of that honour you highborn types are always preaching about." He yanked the handle, pulling the door open.

"I'm not the chosen one!" yelled Titus, his face reddening with anger as he and Jauffre followed Alrukir outside. "And this isn't about honour! It's about the fate of the world! You don't want to die, do you?"

"You would forsake us all out of your own selfishness?" accused Jauffre. Alrukir didn't say a word as he approached the stables. Titus would not let it go.

"You complete self-centred bastard!" he spat. "I honestly have no idea why the Gods chose _you _as their champion. Fine, go! I hope you choke on the next bag of gold you're paid!"

Alrukir ignored their protests as he climbed atop one of the priory's white and brown horses, leaving Runt behind.

"What are you doing?" asked Jauffre. "That horse belongs to the priory!"

"Consider it compensation for the trouble I went through to deliver that amulet." replied Alrukir with a smug half-grin. "Take care of Runt, he's a decent horse. Watch out for that phlegm, though, I swear that stuff's infectious. Now, If you'll excuse me, I'm going home. Your vibrant landscape gives me headaches." With that he took the horse's reins and galloped into the distance.

"Not only a scoundrel, but a thief to boot." muttered Sir Titus as he watched the sellsword and his new horse vanish into the distance. He turned to Jauffre, who was also watching, but with distasteful silence. "I can help you. I don't know what good it will do, but I will make the journey to Kvatch and find the last heir."

"It's good of you to offer." replied the old Blade. "But you are not the chosen one. _He _was, according to the Emperor." He contemplated in silence for a moment. "Nevertheless, there is no harm in trying. Perhaps that is our only option now. Come, I have supplies you can use inside. I trust you'll be needing them after your long journey?"

"Every little bit helps." replied the knight, gratefully. He followed the aged Breton inside. After hearing sounds of a scuffle and shouting, they bolted upstairs, Jauffre with surprising speed for such an old man. In his office, they found a couple of monks, including the younger one who greeted Alrukir and Titus, holding someone down against the desk. The rather diminutive person in question was struggling and crying out in protest.

"Brother Jauffre." said the young Imperial, Piner. "We caught this thief trying to steal the amulet on your desk."

Stepping closer, they saw that the thief was a Wood Elf girl wearing leather armour. She had brown hair and a pale, attractive face. The knight's eyes widened in recognition.

"I know you!" he exclaimed, stepping forward to get a closer look. "You're the girl who tried to steal the amulet back in the Imperial City! We handed you over to the guards!"

"I got free." she replied smugly in a soft, feminine voice.

"You know this girl?" Jauffre asked Titus.

"Yes. She must have been following us ever since we left the city. We should hand her to the Chorrol guard and make sure she's locked up safely this time!"

"Hmm…" Jauffre rubbed his chin. "We could do. But you say she tracked you all the way from the Imperial City? And she tried to steal the amulet?"

"She did steal it, but I caught her."

"Well, this is interesting. This thief could be of value to us."

The young Bosmer looked as shocked as Sir Titus. "Um… what?" she blurted out. "I could be of use to you?"

"How could a career criminal possibly be of value to us?" asked the knight.

"She has skills." Jauffre replied, simply. "She may lack morals, yes, but she has skills we may need in the days ahead. You should take her with you to Kvatch."

"You can't be serious!" spat the knight, his face reddening again. "I'm to bring this _thief_ with me? Criminals should be locked away, not rewarded with a part in noble quests!"

The elf girl rolled her eyes at the knight's idealism. Jauffre remained adamant, however. "Didn't you yourself say a few minutes ago that this isn't about honour? In times like these, we cannot afford to waste valuable skills. Morals must sometimes be put aside for the greater good."

"I… hmph. Fine." Titus realised he had no option but to defer to the old monk's wisdom. "She can come. But if she tries to betray me, it's straight to the lockup with her!"

Jauffre turned to the Bosmer. "Now, girl, we've shown you mercy, so I want you to show your gratitude. In exchange for your complete and total loyalty, you will not be handed over to the authorities. Do you understand?"

The girl was silent.

"Do you understand?"

She slowly nodded her head to show she understood.

"Good. Now, I want you to swear an oath of allegiance. Do you swear by the Nine Divines and the memory of our Emperor that you will offer the Empire your unfaltering loyalty in this important quest?"

After a few seconds of silence, the girl muttered "I swear it."

"Hmph." Titus, however, was still not impressed. "The word of a thief is worth nothing."

"We shall see about that." Jauffre replied. "Now, get going you two. You have no time to lose. I understand you have your own horse, Sir, but as for you, girl, you can take one of the paint horses from our stables."

"What's your name, elf?" asked the knight.

"Methredhel."


	9. A Marked Man

He must have been close to Hammerfell's border now. Alrukir had been travelling up the Black Road West of Chorrol for about half a day, with just one quick break. He was now in the Colovian Highlands, the region of Cyrodiil where his band had been ambushed. That seemed like an age ago now. After the events of the past month, his homeland would feel distant to him now. He did not know if he would ever find out who betrayed him, nor did he truly care. Revenge didn't interest him, for he was a pure opportunist. Revenge was emotional, and a pragmatic sellsword had no time for emotion. It was how he had survived for this long. Growing up alone on the streets of Sentinel, he learned that that only person that mattered in life was himself. Every day was a fight for survival, and to survive you had to be ruthless.

Alrukir forced his mind back to the present. The past was irrelevant, for the present was what mattered, as well as the future. He thought of this as he made his way across the rocky passes of the highlands, riding his 'borrowed' horse, which was significantly better than his previous one. He thought back to the fool knight and the old man in Weynon Priory, telling him he was the chosen one. He could not help but chuckle at the thought. He did not believe in all those legends, and even if he did, why would the Gods choose him? Then again, they did say the Gods worked in mysterious ways…

'No.' he thought. 'That old fool monk was out of his mind. Him and that bloody knight and their damned Emperor… I will not go back.'

He pulled the reins of his horse, stopping it in its tracks as he came upon a grisly scene. He climbed off his horse to take a closer look. There were several carcasses in front of him, three of cows, and four of humans, likely farmers from the way they were dressed and the fact that they were with cows. Most of them had been badly mutilated. One cow was missing its head and one of the farmers' intestines were hanging out, his bloody mouth wide open as his lifeless eyes stared at the sun. another farmer had almost been cleaved completely in two, the lower portion of her body barely hanging off. At first Alrukir would have assumed it to be bandits, but it would take inhuman strength to deliver a blow that strong. Crouching, he patted the bodies down to see if they had valuables on them. It appeared they had been stripped clean. The cows were rotting, so their meat would be bad.

"I found him! He's down here!" The sellsword's thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling out from a rocky ledge to his left. It was a strong Hammerfell accent, much like his own. He looked up to see a tall, lanky redguard clad in chainmail, his bearded face showing through a red headwrap. He was no doubt straight from the desert. Two more figures joined him at his side, both redguards. One was shorter and thicker, the third looked muscular of build, as one could slightly notice even under his mail. He appeared to be the leader, wearing a blue head wrap instead of a red one, and a leather cloak draped around his shoulders.

"Aha! There he is!" the cloaked one called out as they advanced down the slope towards Alrukir. "The one we've been hunting." He noticed they were heavily armed, with scimitars strapped to their sides. It had been a long time since he had seen one.

Alrukir reached for his hilt. "I've got to say, I'm honoured that someone's hunting me, but I assure you, I'm tough prey." The threat in his tone was evident, but the men approached regardless. He continued, though less jokingly. "The fuck do you want? Speak now."

"Don't play coy with me, you treacherous runt." growled the cloaked leader. "If you really thought you could get away with betraying Zurakh, then you're dumber than you look."

"Zurakh?" Alrukir remembered vividly the merchant prince who had got him into this mess. The self-proclaimed most powerful man in Hammefell, the true ruler of Dragonstar. "I had nothing to do with his betrayal, you fucking moron. Go back to your fool master and tell him to find someone else to pin the blame on."

The hired swords grinned, their yellow, stained teeth showing. "Even in the face of death he lies." chuckled the leader. "One a street rat, always a street rat, I guess." This comment earned hearty laughter from his comrades.

"Has he any proof I betrayed him?"

"Enough." the cloaked Redguard hissed. "I did not come here to debate your guilt or innocence. I came here to put you in the ground."

"I'm afraid you'll have a hard time doing that." Alrukir growled.

"We shall see."

The three assailants drew their blades, but not as fast as Alrukir drew his. He launched himself at the leader, swinging, but the leader raised his scimitar just in time, and the two locked their blades. Alrukir slammed his knee into the man's stomach, sending him reeling backwards in pain just in time for the sellsword to dodge a slash from the lanky bearded man. He delivered a swift, but powerful punch to the man's stomach with his left hand, winding the bearded man. He jumped backwards to avoid the third chunky man's swing, proceeding to kick gravel into his eyes. He screamed in agony, clutching at his eyes with his free hand.

The bearded one had recovered and took another swing, which the sellsword parried. He grabbed the man by his mail and threw him at the cloaked leader, who was charging. The two redguards crashed into each other and tumbled to the rocky ground. He focused his attention on the third man, who was still blinded, but was slashing his scimitar wildly in various arcs. He jumped and launched a flying kick into his stomach, sending him crashing to the floor in agony. Alrukir then put his foot on his sword hand and drove his own blade through the lackey's throat.

The sellsword turned around just in time to see the other two advancing on him. He narrowly dodged a hefty rock thrown by the bearded one before the leader hurtled at him, sword pointed for his heart. Alrukir ducked under the blow and tackled the man by his legs, sending him over his shoulders and crashing to the ground once again, barely conscious. The bearded one hefted his scimitar in two hands and roared in rage as he swung furiously at the sellsword. Alrukir blocked him, blow by blow, and after several blows, he found the right time to dodge to the side and trip the man to the ground. He fell on top of his sword, which sliced straight through his chain mail from the impact. It went into his stomach and out through his back, the blood on the metal gleaming in the sunlight.

"Fool!" screamed the leader, who had stood up, his dark eyes full of rage, his mouth twisted a savage snarl, showing every one of his yellowed teeth. "I will bring your wretched head to Zurakh myself!" He was enraged. That was good. Rage made a man weak in battle, as Alrukir had always known. The man launched his sword at him with all his strength. The sellsword stepped to the side, as the impact from trying to block it may have stunned him long enough for his opponent to get a shot in. He held his blade in a defensive position as the man cursed and drew a dagger. He launched himself at the sellsword, but before the dagger could reach him, Alrukir swung his blade in a horizontal arc. Unexpectedly, and with surprising reflexes, the man ducked under and tackled him to the ground. He attempted to drive the dagger into the sellsword's heart, but Alrukir grabbed his dagger hand and twisted. The lackey roared and tried to drive it free. He bit into Alrukir's hand, to which the sellsword let out a cry of pain. Reaching for his dropped sword, he found a rock instead and smashed it as hard as he could into the man's temple. Zurakh's minion roared in agony and fell backwards. Alrukir lept on top of him and smashed the rock repeatedly into his head. He kept on smashing until the man's face was barely recognisable.

Dropping the rock, which was now caked in blood, he cursed as his looked at his bloodied hand. The man had bitten deep, almost to the bone. He kicked his body in frustration and proceed to down a health potion to alleviate the pain. He tore the man's headscarf, creating a makeshift bandage, and wrapped it around his hand. 'That should at least keep infection away.' he thought.

He picked up the scimitar from the dead leader, replacing his Cyrodiilic straightsword with it. He felt the grip in his hand. It had been a long time since he had held a scimitar. His old one had been taken away by the guards when he got arrested. Sheathing it, he hopped back onto his horse, deep in thought.

He had problems now. Zurakh, for some reason or another, thought he was the traitor, and Zurakh never forgot or forgave. He knew the man enough to realise that. He did not suffer betrayal lightly, and he would stop at nothing until he had Alrukir's blood. That, combined with the fact that he was one of the most powerful people in Hammerfell and had a great deal of influence across the province, put the sellsword in a very bad position indeed. No doubt crossing the border into his homeland would be a fool move. Zurakh had eyes and ears everywhere, and he would not get very far into Hammerfell before the merchant prince caught on. He was not safe in Cyrodiil either, as this encounter had proved. His safest bet would be to head south to Anvil, hopefully avoiding Zurakh's agents, and take a ship to Stros M'kai, where he would plan his next move.

The Redguard turned his horse around and set off south, leaving the scene of carnage behind, with the knowledge that he was now a marked man.

* * *

><p>"Will you shut up already, thief? We had a break half an hour ago! We're not stopping again!"<p>

Sir Titus had been putting up with Methredhel's persistent complaining for the past two hours they had been riding. The young elf girl was no doubt trying to make his life as miserable as possible. Her complaints were varied, but all equally annoying. She was hungry, her rear was sore, she needed to piss, hardly a minute went by where she kept her mouth closed. The knight had tied their horses together to make sure she didn't try to pull a fast one, but now he was beginning to wish he hadn't. He wished the Imperial City guards had been more competent. The guards in his home city of Anvil would never have displayed such negligence. He would have to file a complaint the next time he visited the capital.

"We barely stopped for five minutes!" Methredhel whined. "And all I've eaten is a few fruits. I can't travel on an empty stomach, and my backside hurts from this damned saddle!"

"Yes, yes, I've heard it all before!" The Imperial spat. As well as tying their horses together, he had strapped her firmly to her saddle. "We're not stopping, end of story! I don't care how much you moan, Bosmer!"

For a few moments he thought the girl had finally shut up for good. He even checked behind him to see if she had somehow got loose and run off. But she was still sitting there, looking bored, her full lips twisted into a grimace and her beautiful eyes staring at the knight in tedium. He turned back to look where he was going. Even the knight had to admit she was a very beautiful young woman, despite being a criminal. They were currently riding through woodland. It would be a long journey to Kvatch.

"You a knight?"

Titus sighed. He knew it was too good to be true. "Yes, elf. I am a knight. Sir Titus, of the clan Goldvale of Anvil, if you must know."

"So you believe in all that chivalry and honour and stuff, eh?"

"Yes, I believe in 'chivalry and honour and stuff', as you put it. My life is based around it. I live to serve my family, my Empire and anyone who depends on me."

"What's the point of that? You only live once." she reminded him. "Might as well spend it doing things you enjoy."

"I _do _enjoy this, _thief_." He spat the last word like an insult. "Not that a cutthroat like _you _would understand. And life isn't about pleasure. There are things much greater than fulfilling one's selfish desires."

"Like what?"

"Upholding the common good and protecting the weak and innocent."

The elf scoffed. "Ha! The 'common good'? You knightly folk always use that term, as if it means anything. You've never lived in a slum like I have, never had to fight over scraps of food."

"If that is how you have lived, that's unfortunate, but It doesn't justify thievery."

"I don't care about being justified, I care about survival! Your amulet could have netted me a lot of gold, then I would never have had to steal again. What happened to your friend, by the way? That mean-looking Redguard fellow?"

"He's no friend of mine." The knight growled, growing more agitated as he thought of Alrukir. "And he abandoned our cause out of his selfishness and cowardice."

"Sounds like a smart man." Methredhel muttered.

"You _would _say that."

There were a few more moments of silence.

"I need a piss badly." complained the elf.

"Oh, by the nine divines!" Titus roared. He could not take it anymore. "Fine! I'll let you go if you promise to keep your mouth shut for the rest of the journey."

"That'll be hard to keep to." Methredhel jested with a cocky smirk. "But fine."

Titus hopped off his horse and helped Methredhel off hers, undoing her fastenings. He lifted her fairly easily due to his strength and her lightness, then led her over to a tree.

"Be quick about it." He hissed. "I hope to reach Kvatch before the end of the Third Era." Methredhel stared at him. "What are you waiting for?"

"You can't watch me while I go!" Methredhel informed him. "Turn away!"

"Do you think me a fool, elf? You'll scurry off the second I take my eyes off you. I bet you played this on those fool guards in the Imperial City."

"I'm not going until you turn around!"

"Then you're not going to urinate until we get to Kvatch. Back on your horse!"

When Titus approached Methredhel, he was certainly not expecting the wood elf to spit in his eyes. He roared in pain as he was temporarily blinded, hearing the elf's running footsteps on the crunchy leaves. By the time he recovered and looked up, the elf was vanishing into the distance.

"Damn it!" he roared. He cut the rope tying the horses together and hopped on his, riding through the trees after the thief. She was very quick, which would be expected from someone who had been running away with stolen goods their entire life, but a horse was faster, and he soon caught up. She looked behind her, panicked and took a sharp turn, running down a muddy natural path towards a river. She dived in and began swimming to the other side. The river was large, but he thought his horse could make the jump. However, as he reached it, his horse panicked and screamed, rearing up and almost throwing its rider off.

Titus cursed and vaulted from his mare. If he jumped in, he would drown in his armour. The knight was strong, but not strong enough to swim in full plate armour. Looking from side to side, he saw there was no crossing in sight. However, he noticed a shallow area, about waist high, further down. He sprinted for it as Methredel grabbed onto the side to pull herself up.

He jumped into the water and moved across as quickly as he could, pushing against the current with all his strength. He reached the other side and pulled himself up just in time to see Methredhel running into some trees once again. He tore straight after her. In a clearing ahead, he saw the girl stopped in her tracks. As he approached, he saw why.

In the clearing were about a dozen riders, who had surrounded Methredhel, and began surrounding him as he approached. They were a varied bunch, made up of all races, shapes and sizes. There was a big, burly orc with huge tusks and a war hammer strapped to his back, a lean, agile-looking khajiit in leather armour, a few Imperials, one of them dark haired and gaunt and a dirty looking golden-haired nord in some kind of animal furs. One of them approached him, a lanky, sinister-looking dark elf with a pointed beard, his blood red eyes fixed on the Imperial. It became immediately apparent that he was their leader.

"You a knight?" the dunmer rasped.

"Who wants to know?" replied Sir Titus, regarding the newcomers with suspicion.

"I do." muttered the elf with a snigger of contempt. "We're bounty hunters, looking for a criminal on the run. He's a Redguard. Skinny fellow. Long hair, long beard. Sellsword in profession, just broke out of the Imperial City Prison about a week ago."

"Alrukir…" mumbled Titus, recognising the description. A big mistake.

"Ah. You _do _know him." the Dunmer grinned sadistically. "Perhaps you'd care to tells us where he is."

"I don't know where he is." growled the knight. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

A few of the riders chuckled, the dark elf included. He rode slightly closer. "Let me rephrase that." he growled. "Tell us where the fucker is before I gouge your eyes out."

"What man of the law threatens law-abiding travellers?" Titus questioned.

"Oh, fine." the elf muttered sarcastically, as if it was obvious that they were not actually bounty hunters. "You caught us out, Sir Knight." He turned to his men. "Take their weapons and bind them. We'll bring them back to the keep to find out what they know."

Titus knew what that meant. They planned to torture the information out of them. He was not going down without a fight. He unsheathed his longsword and raised his shield, preparing for battle as the shady assailants drew closer.


	10. Old Friends and New Enemies

_Hello, readers! Imperator100 here. Chapter 10 is finally here, and it's the longest and most action-packed chapter so far. I realise the chapters have been pretty inconsistent in length so far, with the last few being very short, but starting with this chapter they're going to get longer. The storylines are beginning to branch out and more characters are being introduced, so things are going to get much more interesting. I'll try to be consistent with posting new chapters, but I'm afraid I can't promise anything, especially with Christmas coming up. With that being said, though, enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

><p>Zurakh, merchant prince of Dragonstar and self-proclaimed most powerful man in Hammerfell approached Fort Ash with his band of heavily armed and armoured guards. The journey from Dragonstar to Cyrodiil had taken a long time and had been tiresome with few breaks, but when something cropped up that slighted or threatened his business, he would waste no time in confronting the situation. He had to take care of the traitor Alrukir as quickly as possible, for he knew the sellsword was a dangerous man, and he needed to set an example to others to show what happens when you betray him, a lesson most should have learned by now. A loyal man Alrukir was not, but the merchant prince had always thought that no one would ever be fool enough to betray him. It turned out he was wrong. Very wrong.<p>

Zurakh was a tall and proud man, looking even more imposing atop his mighty black steed. His skin was a creamy brown, his eyes hazelnut in colour. He wore fine velvet garments that were suitable only for a prince of his stature, but he wore them over a chain mail hauberk, for he never took chances. He was a man who obviously took pride in his appearance, his coal black hair and beard being finely braided and oiled, the sunlight glaring off his elegant locks. He was fond of valuable trinkets that displayed his wealth and power for all to see, and as such, his body was adorned with all manner of jewellery. His fingers were covered with golden rings, encrusted with all kinds of colourful gems from his homeland. At least a dozen shining chains and necklaces hung down to his chest, a mixture of gleaming gold and shimmering silver. He wore a golden bangle around one of his wrists, and even a few of his teeth shone gold. The fine steel scimitar that hung at his side was no exception to his extravagance, the hilt being encrusted with gold and jewels.

He was a middle-aged man. He had inherited his immense fortune at the age of nineteen, after his father, Zaran, who was equally feared and powerful, passed away. After that, he quickly rose to power in Dragonstar and built up a monopoly over his province's trade. The vast majority of the criminal organisations in Hammerfell were under his thumb. Without a doubt, he was one of the most influential figures in the Empire. He even had friends in the Elder Council and had without a doubt influenced many of their decisions. Over the years, he had built up a reputation of… ruthlessness. When one small-time merchant had refused to deal with him, he took this as a slight and had his entire family, including the children, killed. When men under his command failed him in the past, he would display their heads on pikes for all to see. Perhaps that was what he would do with the ragtag bunch he was visiting now. He had no idea why Alrukir would be such a fool as to betray him, but he would make him suffer before he died. That was undoubtable, for one did not slight Zurakh in this manner and get away with it. If they did, it would make him look weak, and a man of his stature could not afford to look weak.

The group soon came upon the 'Fort Ash' the letter he received had mentioned. It was nothing more than a desolate ruin, its walls and gates crumbling, only a small watchtower standing fully. As they passed under the ancient arches, they were greeted by some armed men. One of them approached, a short, pale, ugly Breton wearing some kind of light mail and a ragged cloak.

"Prince Zurakh." he addressed the Redguard with a slight bow. "Welcome to my fort. I hope your journey wasn't too dangerous."

The merchant prince was not impressed, however. "This is what you call a fort?" he questioned in an arrogant, pompous tone that would be expected from a man of such self-importance. "This pile of brick and dust?"

"We can't all afford the same luxuries you can, m'lord." rasped the breton, trying his best to disguise any hint of contempt in his voice. "Can I offer you some food and wine? I trust you'll be hungry after your long journey."

They retreated into the main tower, going up the stairs and eventually reaching a fairly large room with a long table and chairs surrounding it. Around the table were all manner of bread, meats and cheeses. Zurakh sat at one end, his men sitting around it. The pale breton sat at the opposite end to the merchant prince, while his men stood around them, including the massive nord, who was watching on in boredom while sharpening his gigantic axe.

"Pour our guests some wine." the breton calmly ordered one of his men, who immediately fetched a large jug of red wine and began filling the copper goblets around the table.

"I don't remember you having this many men." pointed out Zurakh inquisitively, as he was tended to. He swilled the wine around in his goblet and took a sip, the red liquid dribbling down his clean-shaven chin.

"I acquired them through… various means." the breton rasped. He quickly changed the subject. "Do you like the wine?"

"Ha!" the merchant snorted. "You call this sheep's piss wine? Let's stop beating around the bush, Tyler. Why have you called me to this stinking pile of rubble?"

"You know why I called you here." the breton replied, his voice completely without emotion. "To discuss the traitor."

"Aye, to discuss Alrukir. So if you claim you're so loyal to me, why haven't _you_ killed him yet?"

"If it was that easy, I would have. But Alrukir is a slippery one, as you know, and he's one of the best fighters I know, if not _the _best. It won't be easy to kill him or even find him."

The merchant finished swallowing a large mouthful of chicken leg. "If I knew you were this incompetent, I would never have hired you, Tyler. If you must know, I've already sent some of my men after him. I have not heard from them yet, though."

"I have my own men searching for him as we speak." said the breton. "Cyrodiil may be a large place, but the traitor can't hide forever. He'll be found eventually, and then we can exact retribution. But until then, all we can do is be patient."

"Then I ask again, _why_ am I here?" spat Zurakh, using a chicken bone to pick his teeth, clearly becoming bored and agitated. "I just as easily ordered him killed from Dragonstar, so stop wasting my time, breton."

The breton rose from his chair and began pacing across the room, earning inquisitive glances from Zurakh and his men, their dark eyes regarding the sellsword with contempt from behind their chainmail hoods. "As for the purpose of your being here…" the breton began. "It is quite simple really. Alrukir is my enemy as much as he is yours." He approached Zurakh, and walked behind him so far that the merchant had to crane his neck to look at him from the corner of his eyes. "The only problem with that is… you're my enemy too."

By the time Zurakh realised he had been betrayed, it was too late. He felt cold steel running across his neck, and everything began going dark before him. He coughed up a warm, fresh liquid, which ran down his chin and ruined his fine clothes. Reaching for his throat, he felt a gaping opening that ran from ear to ear, more of the warm substance pouring out of it. Looking up, he saw his men, his loyal, elite men, some of the finest warriors in Hammerfell, were being butchered before him. One screamed as a spear was thrust through his heart. Another got an axe to the back of the skull. He watched in horror as the towering nord who had been calmly standing by the wall ripped the head off one of his men with his bare hands, as if he was tearing a sheet of parchment. Looking at his hands, they were red and glistening. With one last dying cough, he fell out of his chair and slumped against the stone floor.

The breton cleaned the blood off his knife with a rag and shoved it back in his belt. He gave a sinister chuckle, one of the few times he showed emotion, as he stared into the empty eyes of the man he just murdered.

"You always spat on me didn't you, merchant?" he rasped at the corpse. "Always treated me like scum, just another of your expendable hired swords." He delivered a vicious kick to Zurakh's ribs, causing two of the sellswords under his command to glance at each other awkwardly. "You fucking pompous cunt!" he hissed, barely hiding his anger. "Who's laughing now, Zurakh? You're dead and I'm filthy rich! All those lords and ladies back in High Rock, they all looked down on me. 'Edwin Tyler, that filthy lowborn cutthroat'. Didn't want to be associated with honourless scum like me, but they were always content to pay me to do their dirty work, the hypocrite bastards!"

His men had remained silent during his whole rant. They knew better than to interrupt him during one of his fits of rage. Tyler finally managed to suppress any anger he had left, his face returning to its usual cold, emotionless state. He turned to his men. "Someone get these fucking bags of meat out of here." He casually strolled towards the window as his men dragged the bodies away, leaving trails of fresh blood. He gazed out of the window, one of his common habits nowadays.

"What happens now?" boomed a voice behind him. He did not need to look to know it was the nord giant.

"Now, we get money and supplies any way we can." Tyler rasped in reply. "Accept any contracts, rob caravans, raid villages if we can get away with it. How did your last foraging go, by the way?"

The barbarian grinned sadistically. "Great. We hit some farmers on their way to Hammerfell. I nearly hacked some dumb fucking bitch in half. They had a few trinkets and septims on them." The nord seemed to be more interested in the brutality of the attack than the meagre amount they scavenged. "What are we doing about the redguard?"

"Like I said, Vaaz is after him. But if he can't find him, so be it. Let him come to us. I have more pressing concerns right now. You and Vaaz said Blackwood Company accepted my offer of alliance when I sent you to Leyawiin, so I can hopefully expect their help if I need it."

The breton suddenly realised how thirsty he was after all this killing. He turned to fetch himself some more wine, carefully stepping over the pools of blood that covered the floor.

* * *

><p>Sir Titus tasted warm blood in his mouth as he struggled against his bindings. He had fought bravely against his captors, even killing two of them, but in the end he was vastly outnumbered and him and Methredhel had been taken captive. The knight, as brutal reprisal for his resistance, had been beaten within an inch of his life. He was now covered in cuts and bruises, and missing a few teeth. Luckily, he did not think he had broken any bones during the beating. The men had bound his hands and feet together as tight as they could and now the once proud knight lay on side in the cold, wet mud, covered in dirt and his own bodily fluids while his captors sat around a campire laughing, drinking and feasting on the flesh of some animal they had recently hunted. He was too exhausted and in pain to even attempt to lift himself up. They had taken his armour and left him naked except for a loincloth. He did not know what they had done with it, but he hoped they had not destroyed it or dumped it in some pit, for it had been a present from his father many years ago. Most likely they planned on selling it. Armour that pristine was hard to come by, and it had been forged by some of the finest smiths in Tamriel. Filthy Vagabonds like these weren't worthy of laying their eyes on it. Methredhel, also bound, was resting against a tree, appearing to be more bored than worried, despite their situation.<p>

He had not a clue where they were, where they were heading, or how far they had travelled, though the dunmer had mentioned some kind of keep before he was captured. All he remembered was being carried on the back of a horse for hours on end. Whatever was to happen, he was certain it wasn't going to end well for them.

A chorus of laughter erupted around the campfire. "Until that day I never thought it was possible to fuck a girl with an axe." jested the bearded dunmer with a sadistic cackle. "But I guess I proved myself wrong!" His name was Vaaz, as Titus had made out from overhearing the men's conversations, and he was truly a vicious cretin of the worst sort. He was the kind of person who would kick a puppy just for the fun of it. During this night, he had told all kinds of jokes and tales of his reaving and raping. He bragged about all manner of sadistic acts, as if they made him the greatest person in the world. His interactions with Methredhel had also been… disturbing at the least. He had made crude sexual remarks about her as well as threatening to grope or molest her. Titus considered himself a noble person, and he had never enjoyed killing anyone. However, Vaaz was the sort of person he would have no compunctions about decapitating there and then.

"Tell us the one about the Khajiit and the milkmaid!" a greasy haired Imperial demanded.

"I was just about to get to that one! Well, you know how Khajiit have these barbed cocks…" Titus decided he did not want to hear anymore, focusing all his efforts on ignoring the dark elf's vile stories.

"What do you suppose we do now, knight?" hissed Methredhel, who was now glaring at him, spite evident in her beautiful eyes.

The knight managed to push himself upright in his fury. "Me?! Do you have such a short memory, wood elf? You're the one who got us in this mess!"

"You're the one who opened your idiot mouth about that Redguard!"

"Bah!" he spat. "You're a liability. I never should have brought you with me, damn what Jauffre said."

They were interrupted by the booming laughter of the men around the campfire as Vaaz's tale came to it's gruesome climax.

Methredhel turned back to him after their laughter had subsided. "Why did you bring me if you hate me so much?"

"Because he saw something in you." replied Titus. "For some reason. And he seemed a wise old man, so I believed him"

Suddenly Methredhel was grabbed by two of the thugs, who began to drag her towards the campfire. She yelped in surprise and vainly struggled. Titus looked on, equally taken by surprise.

The dark elf stood over her, looking at her with a sadistic grin. "Don't worry, you'll each get your turn. Get her armour off."

It immediately became clear to Titus what they intended to do to her. "Stop!" he roared. "What are you doing?"

"None of your business." hissed Vaaz as his men forcibly stripped Methredhel, who was kicking and screaming. One of them kicked her in the face in retaliation, causing her to spit out blood. "Don't hit her too hard. I want her to still look pretty by the time I fuck her."

"Leave her alone!" the knight yelled, determined to stop them. "Now!"

"You'll shut your mouth." spat the dunmer. "Or are you itching for a second beating so badly?"

Titus would not sit by while it happened. She may have been a thief, but he was a knight, and he could not let a crime that vile happen under his watch. He could not let _any _crime happen under his watch. While the men jeered and roared in anticipation, he found a fairly sharp rock and began rubbing his leg bindings against it. He cut into them, and while he could not fully break the rope, he managed to loosen them significantly enough for his feet to move around with a great deal more freedom. He pushed himself gradually to his feet, ignoring the incredible pain that soared across his body.

He charged at his captors, roaring in anger. He slammed into the dark elf's chest headfirst, knocking him on the ground with a thud. The men's jeering turned to cries of anger as they drew their weapons. Titus dodged a sword swing from the greasy Imperial and slammed his bound fists into his face. The would-be rapists surrounded him at all sides as the half-naked Methredhel crawled away, tears streaming down her cheeks. Titus hurtled at one, headbutting him in the shoulder and knocking him into one of his comrades. He turned around just in time to see Vaaz's mace coming for his head, but not in time to dodge it. It smashed across his cheek, tearing half of it open and doubtlessly shattering his cheekbone. Burning pain, as if he had not been through enough of it today, soared across his face as he fell onto the ground, avoiding the fire by an inch.

The dunmer was clearly infuriated, baring his yellow teeth in a snarl of rage. "I have had enough of you!" he hissed, almost foaming at the mouth. "Cut his balls off and roast 'em on a spit!"

Whether Vaaz actually meant to follow through with the gruesome threat or not would remain forever unknown as an arrow from an unknown source slammed into his eye and protruded from the back of his skull. The dark elf was dead before he hit the ground.

"Fighters Guild! Chaaaaarrrge!" a cry rang out as the cutthroats drew their weapons in shock. A large group of warriors came charging from the darkness between the trees, brandishing all manner of weapons: axes, bows, spears, swords. They fell upon the leaderless brigands like a boulder, with the advantage in both numbers and equipment. Many tried to run, but were mowed down more arrows. The more foolish or brave ones tried to fight back, inevitably being cut down by the warriors of the Fighters Guild. Before long, every single one of them was dead, and the Guild had suffered not a single loss.

As Titus and Methredhel were cut free from their bindings by their rescuers, a relatively aged dark elf in plate armour approached the knight. He was considerably less sinister in appearance than Vaaz, but he had a serious, warrior-like demeanour that came with being a hardened mercenary.

Titus' eyes widened in recognition. "Modryn?" he gasped, pulling himself to his feet once again while cringing at the pain that still seared across the side of his face.

"Titus!" The dunmer had an equally surprised reaction. "My old friend! What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you."

"Guild business. We've heard disturbing reports of attacks on caravans and travellers by vicious brigands around these parts. These must of been some of them, by the looks of it."

"Yes, they captured us a little further south. They were planning on taking us to some keep."

"I can see they weren't exactly gentle with you…" pointed out Modryn, noticing the sorry state of the knight and the bosmer, unaware that his group had luckily arrived before the worst of it. "Vicious lot. Did they say where this keep was?" he asked, curious.

"No, unfortunately."

"Pity. The brigands have never been this bold, which leads me to believe they're not simple bandits. A few days ago we found a burnt out farmstead, and it wasn't pretty. All the livestock slaughtered and not even any meat stripped from them. The farmer and his entire family had been butchered, and not quickly, from what I saw. These are troubling times for sure. First the Emperor's death and now this." The worry on his face seemed to vanish as he remembered he was speaking to his old friend. "But enough of all this doom and gloom. We wiped out this lot, and that's progress, at least. How's the Anvil guild?"

"Couldn't say, I haven't been home in a while." Titus replied.

"Oh?"

"I went to the Imperial City on a contract, ended up staying there a while and got sidetracked fighting in the Arena to earn a little gold. Then I…" He stopped and wondered if he should be telling anyone about his situation, even if it was a close friend like Modryn Oreryn. He decided against it. "I'm heading back towards Anvil right now." He felt bad keeping a secret from such a close friend, but word spread easily, and this was something the masses did not need to know.

"Well, good look on the journey this time. Should be safer at least, now that these scum are dead." He passed a curious glance towards Methredhel. "And who's this? Can't be high up in the Guild, I've never seen her before."

Continuously he had to force Titus to betray his conscience. "She's a new recruit. I met her in the Imperial City and I'm charged with evaluating her performance to see whether she's worthy of joining the Guild or not."

At this, Methredhel shot him a spiteful glare as if to say 'You damned hypocrite, you claim to be a man of honour then you go ahead and lie!'

Titus changed the subject before the dark elf could question the logic behind his answer, such as why a Guardian of the Fighter's Guild would be tasked with something so petty as babysitting a recruit. "How's Vilena? Haven't seen her in years."

Oreyn's expression changed back to one of sorrow. "Not well, I'm afraid. She's not been the same since her son died."

"Her son died?!" Titus replied with shock. "Which one?!"

"Vilanus. Killed fighting some necromancers. Damn shame, he was a great warrior."

The knight didn't know what to say. Vilanus was an affable lad and Titus had taught him many things about combat. He was almost like a son to him. "Give her my condolences." he told Oreyn. The dunmer nodded.

"Ever since then, she's become so protective of Viranus to the point of sheltering him from any contracts. She barely lets the boy leave her sight. I swear, if she keeps coddling him like this, he's going to grow weak. She has my sympathies for her son's loss, but she's leading the guild to ruin. Her grief is clouding her judgement. I barely managed to get her permission to take action against these murderers."

"That _is _concerning." the knight agreed. "Vilena has always been a good leader. She's a strong woman at heart, but I can understand her grief. I'm sure she will recover over time, though."

"Let's hope so." muttered Oreyn, doubt apparent in his voice. "You should come visit while you're up here. I'm sure Vilena and the others would be glad to see you."

"I will sometime, but I'm afraid I can't now, my friend." replied Titus. "I have… something important to attend to."

"A shame, but I guess duty comes first." agreed Oreyn, disappointed. "We'll stay in the area for a while, see if there's any more scum around and check these bodies. Farewell, Sir Titus."

"Farewell, Modryn." the knight replied. Oreryn walked away to debrief his men. As soon as the guildsmen were out of earshot, Methredhel turned to Titus, still shaken from her experiences.

"You… you tried to save me." she said, her eyes red from tears.

"I did."

"Why, though? You knew you had no chance of fighting them off, and that they would hurt you, so why did you do it?"

"It's like I told you, I'm a knight. It's my duty to defend the helpless." Titus walked away to see if he could recover his armour, leaving the young wood elf dumbfounded.

* * *

><p>Alrukir had been riding for a few days in a straight line towards Anvil. He avoided the roads, for he had a higher chance of running into Zurakh's men by taking them. The wilds were more dangerous and littered with feral animals and beasts such as goblins, trolls and spriggan, but they were nothing he couldn't handle and he couldn't risk Zurakh being alerted to where he was going. When he did sleep, it was only for a couple of hours at a was currently in some grassy plains, and he was certain that Anvil was less than a day's ride away. If he was lucky, he would reach the city in time for a ship to Stros M'kai. The redguard halted in his tracks when something caught his eye in the distance.<p>

It was some kind of city, but he didn't know Cyrodiil and therefore couldn't say which. Smoke was billowing out of it and filling up the sky, but that wasn't the strangest thing. The sky was completely red above the city and lightning boomed and cracked, creating a very sinister image indeed. It looked as if it was under siege, but this was definitely no ordinary siege. Checking his map that he bought in the Imperial City, he realised it was Kvatch, the city the old monk had told him to go to, if he recalled correctly. Cursing his curiosity, he decided to go over and investigate.

As he rode further up the hill towards the city, he came upon what seemed to be a refugee camp. Tents were set up and people in rags were wandering around aimlessly, many staring up at the red sky and the city in ruins. Mothers held crying babies in their arms, vainly attempting to comfort them, lone children called for their parents to no avail and a few vagrants were even begging the others for supplies. Alrukir rode up to a ragged dark elf, who was babbling in terror like a madman.

"You there, dark elf. What happened here?"

"I- It was terrible!" wailed the dunmer, his voice filled with a combination of fear and grief. "They- they attacked the city and started killing people! They burned everything!"

"Who attacked the city?"

"They can't be stopped!" the elf roared, his eyes widened and his mouth frothing like a madman. "They slaughtered everyone, men, women, _children_! They showed no mercy! Get out of here while you still can! Run! They'll kill us all!"

The sellsword roughly seized the elf by the scruff of his collar. "Listen, you fucking idiot, I don't have time for your shit. Stop your jabbering and tell me what the fuck happened here before I throw you down that hill!"

His roughness seemed to bring the dark elf back to his senses. "It seemed like a normal day. Then some things- portals of some kind- opened everywhere. Foul Daedra spilled out of them and started butchering everyone, leaving no survivors. Then some- some foul monstrous thing came out of one and began laying waste to everything." From that point on he seemed to turn back to his madman babble. "We're all that's left, don't you see!? You can't stop them! No one can, run while you still can!"

Having had enough of the fool's nonsense, Alrukir threw him to the ground and rode further up the hill, finally seeing what the elf was talking about. In front of the city stood a massive portal the height of a castle, red and burning with fire. In front of it were littered the corpses of humans and daedra alike. Alrukir now understood. The Emperor's prophecy, Jauffre, his role in all of it. It was real.

"You, civilian!" A small group of guards dressed in chain mail hauberks approached him. A black wolf was emblazoned on the tabards they wore over their mail, presumably the sigil of Kvatch. They were led by a helmetless man with brown hair and wrinkles around his eyes, the one who had called him. "This is no place for you. Get down to the refugee camp below if you know what's good for you."

"Do I look like a civilian to you?" Alrukir replied snidely, fingering his scimitar hilt.

The guardsman got the message. "Perhaps not, but this is a job for the Kvatch Guard, not any traveller who rides in here."

"Captain! There's more of them!"

They turned to see more Daedra emerging from the portal. There were several varieties. Some were small and horned, frail looking. Others were more reptilian. Others looked like some vile cross between spiders and human women.

"To arms!" roared the captain, drawing a silver longsword which gleamed in the portal's fire. His men followed him, charging towards the monsters. Alrukir drew his scimitar in turn, leaping from his horse.

He sidestepped to dodge a fireball thrown by one of the small horned ones, a scamp. He sprinted towards it before it had time to conjure up another and whirled his blade, slashing its head clean off its shoulders. He turned to face a reptilian beast, a Clannfear, which slashed for his neck with its bloodstained claws. He responded by jumping back a step and swiping its left arm off. The beast let out a roar of pain and hurtled towards the sellsword, but Alrukir impaled it on the blade. The Clannfear, still barely alive, snapped its beak in an attempt to bite his killer, but finally died as he withdrew the scimitar.

He heard the savage roar of a large beast and a human scream behind him. A huge, reptilian daedra with the appearance of an anthropomorphic crocodile was advancing on a guardsman, who was on the floor and screaming in pain, his sword arm having been slashed off. The beast had fangs and claws like long razors. It was known as a Daedroth.

The brown haired captain finished beheading a scamp and watched in horror as the monster picked up his man and brutally tore his head from his shoulders, tearing into his body with its teeth. It threw the corpse aside like a piece of bloody meat and let out another roar as it caught sight of Alrukir. It must have detected the danger he posed, as it seemed to concentrate only on him.

The redguard stood his ground, staring the daedroth right in its yellow reptilian eyes. It charged, surprisingly quick for a daedra that heavy. The sellsword raised his scimitar in preparation as it drew closer and closer. It leapt towards him, swiping with both pairs of claws, but he dodged to its side and slashed across its leg. The blow was not enough to severely hurt it, mainly due to its tough skin, but it did create a moderate gash in its leg.

The beast hissed in rage, turning around for another assault while the Kvatch guardsmen fought off the lesser daedra around it. Alrukir jumped backwards as it swiped again and again and again, growing more angry each time he dodged its savage swings. It was much larger than he was, and quick for its size, but the sellsword was quicker. He delivered another slash, but this time it was more significant, ripping off a few of its claws. This was not enough to stop it, however.

It lunged for Alrukir, quickly leaning down in an attempt to bite his head off. He dodged back just in time to avoid the fatal bite, but the daedroth took hold of his sword in its powerful fangs. Not foolish enough to cling on, he let go and drew back as the beast cross swept its frontside with both arms. It tossed the blade to its side, several yards away. The sellsword was not completely without weapons, though. A warrior had to be very unprepared to carry only one weapon, as the threat of disarmament was constant, especially with enemies more physically powerful than you.

The growling daedra hurtled towards him again as he drew a knife. Taking aim as the creature drew towards him, he tossed it. It landed straight into its left eye. The daedroth stopped in its tracks and let out a shrill scream as it flailed madly, the knife sticking out of the gory mess that used to be its eye. Alrukir took the opportunity to run and pick up his scimitar. By the time he had it, the monster was turning towards him, more furious than ever. Before it could fully face him, he charged to its rear end, jumping over a violent swing of its mighty tail. He clambered onto its back, using the scales for grip as it ecstatically swung from side to side, attempting to shake the sellsword off.

Barely managing to hold on, he leapt onto its massive head and jammed the blade straight down into its other eye, blinding the beast. As it flailed about in agony, he hung over its nose upside down, staring into its huge gullet. Before it could bite his head off, he jammed the blade through its upper jaw and into its brain. The roars of pain gradually subsided as the daedroth crashed to the ground and ceased to move, blood pouring from its mouth.

As the guards finished off the rest of the daedra, Alrukir withdrew his sword and throwing knife from the monster's corpse. The captain, cleaning daedra blood off his longsword, approached the redguard.

"Well, it seems you _are _useful after all." he pointed out. "Perhaps I misjudged you. My name's Savlian Matius by the way, and I'm captain of the Kvatch Guard."

"Well, you must be _excellent_ at your job." remarked Alrukir sarcastically, motioning towards the ruined city with his head.

The guard captain was less friendly this time. "Careful, redguard. I admitted I misjudged you, what more do you want?" Alrukir evidently had a habit of pissing off people he had barely met. "Tell me, what have you come here for? I doubt anyone has gotten our distress signals this quickly."

"I'm looking for a priest." Alrukir told him. "Name of…" he thought for a second, trying to remember the name Jauffre had given him. He finally remembered. "…Martin."

Matius nodded his head in recognition. "Ah yes, Brother Martin. To tell you the truth, we're not sure who's alive and who's not. _Everyone_ could be dead for all we know. Let's hope not though, of course. But if he's alive, he'll be in the Chapel of Akatosh in the city." He turned and pointed at the huge portal, anger filling him. "However, that damnable thing is blocking the main gate! No one can get in! I sent some men inside to figure out some way to close it, but they haven't returned yet. Argh!" He snarled in anger, shaking his fist at the air. "I wish we could just get in there and do something!"

Alrukir thought for a moment. He did not know why, but all the evidence pointed to the same thing: he had been chosen by the gods for whatever reason. They must have had a foul sense of humour to choose someone like him. But he needed to find Martin and take him to Weynon Priory, that was for sure. "I'll go in." he finally said. "I'll find a way to close it. I must."

Matius raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Who knows how many of these… monsters are in there. I've seen them rip some of my most experienced men to shreds."

"Unlike your most experienced men, I've fought daedra before, as well as other more dangerous things."

"Fine. Go on in, I'm not stopping you. But I warn you, once you're in there, there may be no way out. We have no idea what lies on the other side."

"I'm willing to take that chance." replied the sellsword. It felt strange to say that. This was the only time he had done anything without any personal gain involved. Perhaps, though, there was a sort of personal gain. Tamriel was in danger, and he was an inhabitant of Tamriel. Regardless, he approached the fiery portal with caution.

"Good luck." called Savlian. Alrukir ignored him. The closer he got to the portal, the more he had second thoughts. No. There was no going back now. He could not afford to have second thoughts. He stood right in front of the monstrosity, staring into its fiery depths. He took a deep breath and stepped into the marble jaws of Oblivion.


End file.
